


Attainment, Part II

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry [8]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M, PTSD, Sith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-01
Updated: 2006-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 12:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once attained, certain things will never be undone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attainment, Part II

**Author's Note:**

> OF NOTE: The Anniversary Edit is complete! You can finally read the entire thing below. Next round of Anniversary Edits: OtherWhen. *doom*
> 
> See Notes at the End for a Warning that I should have included the first time around.
> 
> BETA: MerryAmelie@MA & Norcumi@tumblr!

Republic Date 5199: 11/18th

Naboo

 

Mace Windu was the last Jedi to make it into Theed.  Entering the city was like walking into chaos itself.

The streets were filled with people.  The Naboo had been released from the camps imprisoning them, and they were everywhere, searching for friends and loved ones while celebrating the fact that they had survived.  Tears, laughter, and jovial shouting all jumbled together, creating a deafening cacophony.

The teeming masses made it harder to identify landmarks, and he made three wrong turns before finally spying the improvised medical center that the Queen had told them of before the battle.  The area around the building was quieter, at least, watched over by a handful of Naboo Guardsmen in order to keep the medical center from being swamped by the crowds.

Triage must already have been completed, but cleanup was not.  There was more than one spot on the street that was still wet with blood, human or otherwise.

“Go ahead, Master Jedi,” the guardsman posted at the building’s gate said, waving him through.  His aura was familiar in a way that suggested the guardsman was related to Panaka.  “Captain Panaka would like a report from you when you’re done, but given the situation, he says there is no rush.”

“Thank you,” Mace said, and went through the gate.  There was a small garden in front of the house, still littered with children’s toys—not a business, or a clinic, but a converted home.

Quinlan Vos was waiting at the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and one foot propped up.  “Master Windu.”

“Vos.”  Mace stood in place for a moment, recalling his balance and submersing himself in his center.  There was still so much to do, but he could not go into the Palace without checking on his own people first.  “Tell me what’s happened.”

“No one is injured outside of Kenobi,” Vos answered in a low voice, “though it might not stay that way.”

“Why?”

Vos grimaced.  “I think you should see it for yourself instead of hearing it from me.  But it doesn’t look good.”

Mace pressed his lips together.  “Vos.  How bad?”

“Obi-Wan should be dead,” Vos said, and looked away.  “Stubborn, stupid bastard.”

Mace nodded.  Vos usually chose frustrated anger over emotional upset, one of the many reasons he was considering tutoring the Knight in the _vapaad._   “When I go up to the Palace, I would like you to come with me.  Is there anyone else who can cover the door?”

“Tachi will be good for it.  She wants to punch something in the worst way, and if anyone volunteers?”  Vos’s smile was bitter.  “Well, at least someone will get what they want today.”

The converted medical center was like stepping into an unexpected gale storm.  Mace tightened his shields and walked through the makeshift waiting area, full of Naboo in pain—but these were not the desperate.  None out here were dying from their injuries.  That was reserved for those in the rooms beyond.

Mace touched Captain Tarpals on the shoulder on his way through, receiving a tired nod.  The Gungan had wrenched shoulder and knee during the battle, and their own Healers were overwhelmed.  Mace suspected that more of the Gungans would be making their way into the city for medical treatment before night fell.

His Jedi were in the last two rooms.  Behind a closed door, Mace sensed healing work and did not disturb them.  He went into the open room, where he found Skywalker, Raallandirr, Tuuvino, Muln, Secura, Micah, and Qui-Gon.  The latter was stretched out on what looked to be a converted couch, his head resting on Micah’s lap.  Qui-Gon’s eyes were closed, and disturbing dark crescents of exhaustion were starting to appear beneath them.  Micah had his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and though Micah was awake, he didn’t look much better.

Tuuvino got up from his chair and reached out, arms raised.  Mace picked up his Padawan and hugged him, relieved to see the boy in one piece.  _You’re all right?_

 _Yes, Master,_ Tuuvino replied.  _I’m just worried about my friends._

Mace made certain that Tuuvino was settled back in his chair—his leg was paining him—and turned his attention to the others.  Skywalker was meditating in full lotus, his expression set and determined.  Raallandirr was curled up on the floor, her chest rising and falling in the slow way of one in an exhausted slumber.  Secura was petting the Wookiee’s mane, soothing and reassuring the younger Padawan with touch.  Muln was passed out in another chair, his chin resting on his chest and his arms hanging loose over the sides.

Mace decided upon Micah as his victim and went to the couch, settling down on his knees on the floor so the man wouldn’t have to stare up at him.  “What happened?”

Micah sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand.  “From what I’ve managed to piece together so far, there was another fighter, a wild card who dropped in once the Sith was dead.  He could hide in the Force, just like Obi-Wan showed us.”

Mace frowned.  “Go on.”

“Fucker waited until Maul was dead, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were exhausted, and…”  Micah mimed a stabbing gesture, his expression grieved.  “Our wild card didn’t live long after that, at least.  Qui-Gon told me that Obi-Wan broke the bastard’s knee, and then he lost his head.  The body went into an active melting pit, so we don’t have much for evidence left except the Sith’s corpse.”

“You keep specifying Sith for Maul, but not this other,” Mace said.  “Why?”

“He called himself a Hand of Sidious,” Qui-Gon said in a rough voice.  Mace glanced down to see his eyes open, though they were red-rimmed, further evidence of exhaustion.  “Had the feeling that it wasn’t quite the same thing.”

“How are you doing, Qui-Gon?” Micah asked, before Mace could voice the question.

Qui-Gon sighed and lifted his hand.  “Still here, Micah.  Not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Micah said, taking Qui-Gon’s hand and squeezing hard, “because we’ve already had to drag your ass back to life twice now.  Let’s not make it a third, okay?”

“There was a second?”  Qui-Gon seemed bemused.  “Only remember the one.”

Mace studied him, taking care to look deeper than he usually did, as he wished to allow others to retain their privacy.  When he saw the glimmering, multi-threaded bond, he scowled.

“You Lifebonded with that man?” Mace asked in disbelief.  “Do you have any idea how many steps you skipped, how badly that could have gone?”

“Micah’s already said as much,” Qui-Gon said with a tired, unrepentant smile.

“I should censure your ass so hard that you’ll both be pulling Mid-Rim diplomatic duty until you’re thirty years past your pyre.”

Qui-Gon just nodded.  “I’d still do it again.”

“I know you would, you bastard,” Mace said, reaching out to rest his fingertips on top of Micah and Qui-Gon’s joined hands.  “Is it going to work?  I don’t want to lose either of you.” _And we damned well can’t afford for both of you to die,_ Mace thought, his duty to the Order forcing him to consider political ramifications, as well.

“It’ll work,” Qui-Gon said, closing his eyes again.  “It _is_ working.”

Micah motioned at the Padawans.  “It’s working because we were all here to help hold onto them.  If Qui-Gon had been doing this alone…”

Mace nodded his understanding.  Qui-Gon had already slipped under again, asleep or unconscious.  “What about Obi-Wan?”

“Terza says that if they can get the damage repaired, he’ll live,” Micah said, but he was frowning.  “The problem is that he keeps shocking out.”  He swallowed.  “It’s pretty bad, Mace.  I don’t know how Obi-Wan lived through the first few seconds.”

 _Stubborn, stupid bastard,_ Vos had said.  Mace understood what the young Knight meant, now.

Adi was waiting outside of the other door when Mace stepped back into the hallway.  “We’ve got him stable, for the moment,” she said in a low voice as Mace approached.  “We’re not done, but at least we can take a moment to breathe and not worry about losing them both.”

“May I see him?”

She gave him a fond look.  “You always take responsibility and shoulder blame where there is none to be found.”

“Nevertheless,” Mace said, nodding acknowledgement of her accurate accusation.

“It should be all right.”  Adi opened the door and led him into a darkened room.  Mace felt the peculiar wet tingle of passing through a decontamination field.

Obi-Wan was unconscious, merciful given the nature of plasma wounds.  The biobed was radiating heat to such an extent that Mace could feel it from halfway across the room.  Obi-Wan’s face was pale and marked by exhaustion, just as Qui-Gon’s was, but there were also visible signs of stress and discomfort.  The young Knight was covered by two different blankets, but the injury was not.  Mace only looked for a moment before forcing his eyes away.

“He’s in pain?” Mace asked, pausing to rest his hand on Yoda’s shoulder.  The old Master was seated on the bed at Obi-Wan’s shoulder, his head lowered and ears lowered in clear signs of fatigue.

“Unfortunately,” Adi said, her voice still quiet.  “There isn’t anything more we can do about that.”

Jale Terza looked up from where she was sitting in a corner.  Padawan Abella was seated next to her, her head resting on her Master’s shoulder.  “We tried temporary paralysis via the eighth thoracic vertebrae,” Terza said, before Mace could ask.  “It helped with the pain, but ultimately all it did was induce cardiac arrest.”

Unfortunate, but Mace understood why.  Pain was how you knew that you were still alive.

 “You should bring Qui-Gon in here,” Mace said.  Maybe it was spiritual paranoia, but he didn’t think it was the best idea to stress a new bond with distance, not on the first day.

“I know.”  Terza nudged her Padawan into wakefulness before standing.  “I couldn’t risk anyone else in here, pacing and fretting.”

Mace shook his head.  “Healer, right now that man is in no condition to do either.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Breathing hurt.  Everything hurt. 

The Force answered him, but it was a weak, tenuous connection, and he didn’t remember what that meant.  It was encouragement enough, though, and gave him the energy to open his eyes.

Light hurt.  He moaned in distress, shut his eyes, and promptly drifted back down into blissful darkness.

The next time he woke, he heard voices, ones he recognized.  Instinct made him reach for the nearest presence, encountering feminine energy that was harried and worried.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”  Terza.  “Back to sleep, you.  We’re not done yet.”

 _Done with what?_   For some reason, he couldn’t master his own thoughts.  He still felt like he was floating, and he really didn’t like the sensation.  Floating…pain… 

 _But they don’t have bacta yet,_ he thought muzzily.

“What the hell is bacta?”  Abella.  “And wow, that was loud.  I’ll bet they heard that on Coruscant.”

“Padawan.”  There was a smile in Terza’s voice, despite the reproof, along with a great deal of the empathic concern that Healers were so good at projecting.  Fuck, he must have halfway obliterated himself.  Jale Terza normally didn’t subject him to empathy.  She was usually too busy yelling at him to stay in the damned Ward long enough to heal.

“We need you to go back to sleep, Obi-Wan.”

Bugger that.  He wanted to know what was going on, first.

“He’s not listening to us.”  Cool hands were touching his right arm, a preface to the feel of metaphysical needle-and-thread mending.  He knew that tactic—he’d seen Adi use it several times during the war.

Except that—this wasn’t then. 

For a brief, panicked moment, he had no idea _when_ he was.

“You need to rest.”

 _No, I don’t think I want to,_ he replied in abject confusion.  Qui-Gon sounded haggard, miserable, and too far away.  _I want to know why I’m surrounded by women._   This was at least two Healers too many unless he had seriously fucked up.

 _You didn’t,_ Qui-Gon whispered.

He was not convinced, especially when Abella giggled, high-pitched and stressed.  “Don’t worry, Obi.  I’ve seen your dangly bits plenty of times, and you’re usually too unconscious to notice.”

It took him a moment of groggy contemplation to decide that yes, that was funny.  He laughed, but the sound turned into a choked scream as something within his gut ground together, molten broken glass tearing him apart from the inside out—

Warm hands held him down, three sets—no, four?—accompanied by a swift influx of Force energy that soothed the heat, made the pain fade back to a dull ache.

“I told you so,” Terza scolded him, sniffing.

Crying?

He must have been out for a few minutes; when he woke up, his head was pillowed on something soft.  Small, claw-tipped hands brushed his temples, and the warmth beneath his head was Master Yoda’s lap.

_Cushy._

“Still too loud, thanks,” Abella said, but she didn’t sound near as stressed as before.

Yoda’s laugh was the barest hint of sound.  “The first to think so, you are not.  Sleep you must, Obi-Wan.”

He felt the gentle press of the Force against his thoughts, a hint of peaceful slumber, but he wasn’t going down that easily.  Not without reassurance.  _Qui?_

Qui-Gon didn’t answer him, but Yoda did.  “Resting with your Padawans, he is.  Resting, you should also be.”

He relaxed, hearing the truth in Yoda’s words.  He had a bad feeling the situation was more complicated than that, but that was going to have to wait.  He slipped under the moment Yoda had full access to his thoughts, and almost missed the ancient Master’s benediction.

“Live, you will.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

When Micah came to find him sometime after noon, he took one look at Qui-Gon and then all but Force-hauled him out of the infirmary.  Qui-Gon was so startled that he forgot to protest until Micah had shoved him into one of Theed’s public gardens.  The light was too bright, stinging his eyes and forcing him to blink rapidly in a vain attempt to adjust.  The warm breeze against his skin felt odd, too sensitive, like he’d spent months ship-bound.

“You needed sunlight,” Micah explained in a brusque voice, and then pushed Qui-Gon down on a bench placed near a stream.  It was very pretty, but Qui-Gon could damned well appreciate the Naboo’s insistence upon natural ornamentation _later._  

 “I could have done without,” Qui-Gon finally said, tempted to stand in spite of the warning glare on Micah’s face.  “I don’t want to leave him—”

“You’re not.”  Micah’s expression softened.  “You can’t, you complete idiot.  You’re Lifebonded.  You’re always going to know where he is, and how he’s doing.  Try it,” he added.

It was effort not to lose his patience with his life-long friend, but he did as instructed.  The nascent connection led his thoughts back to the room where Obi-Wan slept.  Qui-Gon could sense the impression of faint dreaming, but nothing clear, nothing memorable—and then Obi-Wan was in his head completely, filling his awareness with his partner’s distinct presence.

 _No shields_ , Qui-Gon thought, grateful for the drugged slumber.  The experience would have been jarring, otherwise.  He felt his jaw clench as awareness of the healing wound started to impinge upon his senses.  To hurt that much while still unconscious and stuffed to the gills with painkillers…

If Qui-Gon had to describe what happened next, it would have been action and sensation together.  It was the sense of resting, peaceful and quiet, aware of the warmth of someone next to you but not quite sharing it until they rolled over and pressed against his side, limbs fitting together instead of an awkward tangle—

“Whoa, pull back,” Micah was saying.  “Neither of you are ready for that yet.”

Qui-Gon extracted himself from Obi-Wan’s consciousness, stopping once to soothe a faint whisper of protest.  It was not pain to retreat back into his thoughts, not really, but it still made him ache when they were both settled in their own heads.  Force, no wonder Tahl and Micah had disappeared for a solid ten-day after their bonding.

“Told you so.”  Micah grinned and sat down next to him, resting his hand on Qui-Gon’s shoulder.  “You can be there for each other wherever you are.  Give it time, and you won’t even need to be in the same quadrant, let alone the same planet.  It takes some adamantine shielding to keep mutual awareness from crossing a Lifebond.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes were burning again, but for an entirely different reason.  “I had…I had an idea of what it meant, to be part of a Lifebond,” he said, wiping tears from his face.  “The reality will take some getting used to.”

Micah nodded, putting his staff down to rest against the bench seat.  “When a bond like this is going to be created, someone else who is Lifebonded is supposed to talk to those who wish to form it.”

“I know,” Qui-Gon muttered, a hint of rebellion flaring.  The list of Lifebonded Jedi was very short.

Micah ignored the temperamental grousing.  “I know you’ve both been around Tahl and myself for the last year, but witnessing it isn’t quite the same as feeling it.  You and Obi-Wan probably shouldn’t have skipped that step.”

Qui-Gon leaned forward and rested his face in his hands.  “I suppose not.  I just couldn’t think of anything else.  I thought—” His voice broke.  “I thought he was going to die in my arms.”

Micah was quiet until Qui-Gon could regain his composure.  “Were you going to ask him to bond with you, regardless?”

He straightened and looked at Micah, and found complete understanding there.  “Yes.”

Micah smiled.  “Then it doesn’t matter.  Besides, a Lifebond can’t be completed unless everyone involved truly wants it to be.”

Qui-Gon sighed and slumped back against the bench, letting hard wood press into his shoulders.  “I had forgotten that.”

“I thought you might have.”  Micah nudged him.  “You were starting to get that guilty look I know so well.  ‘Oh, crap, I’ve bonded to someone who might not like the idea half as much as I do.’”  His grin was merciless.

Qui-Gon shook his head.  Micah was right; you had to _want_ it, just like with any other sort of bond, else the whole thing fell apart before it could form.  “Thank you.  I would still rather stay with him.”

“And you will,” Micah agreed.  “Terza says that we’ve probably got a full thirty-nine hours until she’ll allow Obi-Wan to wake up on his own.”  Qui-Gon smiled; if Terza managed to keep his partner asleep for even half that length of time, it would be a minor miracle.  “You needed to get the hell out of there for a while.  You look like a damned wraith.”

“I do not,” Qui-Gon retorted, though Micah could be right about that, too.  He hadn’t given much thought to anything except Obi-Wan in—in—

“Gods, Micah, what _day_ is it?”

“Last day of the week.  You’ve been out of it for two solid days,” Micah said.

Qui-Gon was tempted to hide his face in his hands again.  “That bad, huh?”

“Yes.”  Micah was sympathetic, but he also had the stern, unforgiving visage of the Combat Master on his face.  “You’re fidgeting.  When was the last time you meditated?”

Qui-Gon halted in the middle of what was, indeed, fidgeting.  Dammit.  “Before the battle, I think.  I was helping—oh, Force.  Rillian!”

Micah’s hand was back on his shoulder, keeping him from bolting.  “Relax.  You haven’t wronged your Padawan.  She is fully aware of what’s going on, and of how much your focus was needed to keep Obi-Wan alive.  Rillian and Anakin were in there with you, actually, making sure you didn’t drain yourself too badly.”  He pointed at the path that led further into the garden.  “Now go meditate until you feel more like yourself again.”

Qui-Gon gave Micah a grateful smile, and then startled him with a tight embrace.  “Thank you.  I will do that.”

Micah had been right about the meditation, too.  It took him a long time to trance down, too aware of the throbbing pain in his knee now that he was paying attention to things other than a fragile lifeline of a bond.  Sorting through the awful jumble of his thoughts, spurring on a bit of healing in badly bruised joints—both served to make him feel better, and far less likely to trip over his own feet in an exhausted haze.

He came back to full awareness slowly, and when he opened his eyes, he found Rillian sitting in front of him, covered in butterflies.  Her nervous gaze was focused on the ones crawling over her face.

“I think they like you,” Qui-Gon said in a soft voice.  Rillian smiled, and then flinched when a butterfly with large violet wings parked itself on her nose.  The sudden movement did nothing to deter the majority of the insects; even the ones that fluttered away came back within seconds.

[I was waiting for you to finish meditating, and they just sort of…showed up,] Rillian said in a quiet, rumbling howl.  [I’ve never seen butterflies before.  Why don’t we have any in the Temple gardens?]

“They don’t survive very well in closed environments, and the Temple gardens must be climate-controlled to ensure the health of some of the more delicate plants they shelter.”  Qui-Gon held out his hand, patient and still, and several of the winged insects crawled onto him.  They scented him, the long tongues tickling his palm as they feasted upon the salt on his skin.

Rillian sighed.  [I want to take them all home with me,] she said wistfully. 

It seemed that the Force had finally gifted him with a Padawan that shared his interest in adopting random creatures.  “They must remain where they are, Padawan, for they will not thrive elsewhere.”  _There are plenty of other things that may need to be adopted,_ he thought, and smiled.

[I know.]  Rillian shook herself; the butterflies all took off in a surprised rush.  She gazed at Qui-Gon as they left, her brows drawn together in concern.  [Are you okay, Master?  Truly?]

In answer, Qui-Gon opened his arms.  Rillian darted forward, settling into his lap before laying her head against his chest.  He wrapped his arms around her, hands resting in soft fur.  “I am now, Rillian.”

She nodded.  [Good.  I was afraid—] She hesitated, plowing forward when Qui-Gon did nothing more than wait for her to speak.  [You bonded with your mate, and I’m happy for you, Master, but it was frightening.  You nearly died when he did, and…and I wasn’t sure where that would have left me.]

Qui-Gon considered her words, wondering if some of her worry stemmed from uncertainty about her place in his life.  This was only the first week of her new apprenticeship, and he refused to stumble that badly, that quickly.  Preferably not at all.  Obi-Wan still bore literal scars from his first year as a Padawan.

“Believe me, Rillian, I had no intention of dying.  Even if something had happened to me, you would still have been cared for.  You would have remained a Padawan.”

[Oh, I know,] the Wookiee replied, snuggling in closer.  [But I want _you_ to be my Master.]

“I’m glad.”  He closed his eyes, concentrating on their training bond, and allowed its presence to soothe them both.  “I’m sorry, Padawan.  This isn’t the kind of first experience as a Jedi that I would have wished for you.”

Rillian snickered.  [But it just seems to happen that way.  Master Obi-Wan said that his first mission involved draigons, explosives, and someone trying to kill him.  Then Anakin told me that on his first mission, your shuttle was quite literally blown out of the sky before you were chased across half a planet for no reason.]

Qui-Gon chuckled.  Obi-Wan and Anakin’s “It could be worse” philosophy had been, for once, properly utilized.  “On my first mission, I inadvertently got myself sold into slavery.  My Master was not happy about having to buy me back.”

Rillian twisted her head to look up at him in disbelief.  [No.]

“Yes,” he replied, nodding.  “I was mortified, believe me.  I read our mission briefings very, _very_ carefully after that.  Dooku told me in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t buy me back if I managed to do it again.”  He’d learned of his Master’s anger early in his apprenticeship.  Qui-Gon had made it a habit to try not to anger the man at all.  An angry Master Dooku had been a frightening sight.

Granted, that trend had reversed itself around his fifteenth year.  Qui-Gon still wasn’t certain how he’d managed to get through his apprenticeship without either of them killing the other.

[Screaming matches, huh?]  Rillian sounded sad.

“Unfortunately,” Qui-Gon admitted.  He hadn’t meant to allow his thoughts to wander that far afield.  “We were not very well matched.  I don’t think it will be a concern for us, Rillian.”

Rillian carefully extricated herself from Qui-Gon’s hold before standing.  He looked at her in regret.  There would come a time, altogether too soon, when she would be far too large to sit in her Master’s lap. 

She grinned, hearing that thought, too.  [Don’t worry, Master.  We’ll figure something out.]  She held out her hands, helping Qui-Gon get to his feet.  The ground tilted alarmingly while Qui-Gon cursed under his breath, trying to convince his equilibrium that he was not in danger of falling.

Rillian’s growl was laced with enough concern that language was almost unnecessary.  [Let’s get you back, Master.  You still don’t look all that great.]

“That is probably a good idea,” Qui-Gon agreed.  He was content to let his Padawan help him on his unsteady walk back to the infirmary.

“How is he?” Qui-Gon asked Abella, after Rillian had made certain that he was sitting down.

“Better, I think,” Abella replied, tilting her head and wrinkling her nose as she studied her patient.  “His color’s better, at least.”  She reached out to check his pulse and then squeaked in surprise when Obi-Wan, still unconscious, swiped at her with his other hand.  He muttered something about pesky Healers and then crossed his arms, shifting away from where Abella stood.

“That’s the most wonderful thing I’ve seen in days,” Abella said, her eyes shining with delight.  They were likely sporting near-identical foolish grins, but Qui-Gon did not care.  The act had been accompanied by a drowsy thought:  _Make her stop poking me.  It’s distracting._

Rillian was hugging Qui-Gon around his shoulders, all but trilling her happiness.  Qui-Gon felt like singing—a terrible idea, since he sang about as well as he cooked.  For the first time since Obi-Wan had been injured, Qui-Gon knew he would be able to rest in this room, secure in the knowledge that Obi-Wan would be all right.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan awoke to darkness that had the feel of some ungodly hour of night to it.  He could feel Qui-Gon close by, an instinct that whispered to him without his needing to reach out and search.

Terza was leaning over him, prodding at a light bandage dressing on his right arm.  It covered him from wrist to elbow, disappearing into the loose sleeve of his shirt.  Garb of a medical ward escapee.

“When did—” Dear gods, that was a wrecked rasp of a sound.  He tried again, a carefully aimed, quiet projection:  _When did that happen?_

The Healer, he realized, was staring at him, her eyes gleaming.  Obi-Wan felt an unpleasant jolt of surprise when he noticed the tear marks on her face.

“You lout,” Terza whispered.  “I’m not supposed to be this attached to my patients.”

“Sorry?” Obi-Wan tried, baffled both by her reaction and by his inability to speak with any strength.  He’d no idea that Terza thought of him so fondly.  Though, they had been close once before.  Maybe he shouldn’t be so shocked by the idea.

Terza smiled and wiped her face dry.  “Just don’t show up in my care again any time soon, Obi-Wan.  At least not this way.  I thought we were going to lose you both.”

That was another nasty jolt, one he didn’t care for in the slightest.  “I don’t remember.”

Terza nodded and looked to her right.  Obi-Wan followed her gaze over to a second bed, not a medical one, but a cot someone must have pilfered.  Qui-Gon was lying there, asleep.  That would explain the deep sense of calm he could feel through their bond, but he wasn’t used to it being so present, or so…so intense.

“We nearly lost you several times during the first twenty-six hours.  You kept fading, despite the bond, despite everything we did to try and keep you with us.  Every time, he nearly went with you.”

 _I’m not letting you go_.  Qui-Gon’s words, but he couldn’t remember when they had been said.

“It’s a good thing that Qui-Gon Jinn is a stubborn man, because he’s the one that pulled you back until we got you stable.”  Terza glowered at him.  “And if you ever do anything so stupid again, I’m going to kick you so hard your teeth will rattle!”

It hurt to laugh, despite the feeling of what were probably heavy narcotics in his system.  “Love you, too, Jale.”

“I know.”  Terza sighed.  “Brat.  Now get better, please.  My Padawan has done enough panicked healing this week.”

She left him after patting his right hand, just below the bandage line.  Obi-Wan lifted his left hand enough to see the intravenous lines disappearing into his skin.  He really wanted to know what in the hell he’d gone and done, but the feel of someone else’s sleeping mind was lulling.  He gave in and fell asleep within moments.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan tried to open his eyes, but night had become too-bright day.  “Ugh.”

Someone moved, the soft rustle of cloth and the pad of bare feet.  The light trying to pry its way into his closed eyes dimmed considerably.  “Try it now.”

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, relieved by the lack of stabbing pain. He waited for objects to come into focus, which was a slow process.  He must have been swimming in pain killers.

The moment he could see, he found a pair of red-rimmed blue eyes.  “Hi,” Obi-Wan whispered.  His voice sounded like five different shades of wrecked.  “You look terrible.”

“I’m sure I do,” Qui-Gon replied, a gentle smile on his face.  “Grooming has not been a priority of late.”  His partner’s hair was unbound, falling to his shoulders in a tangled mess to rest on rumpled tunics.  There were exhausted crescents under Qui-Gon’s eyes, and he was paler than Obi-Wan had ever seen aside from times of severe injury.

None of that mattered; he still thought Qui-Gon was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen.  The impression traveled along their pairbond without his intent.  He tried to snatch it back and was immediately caught by the clear sense of happiness that had already returned to him.  Never had their pairbond been so…

No.  It wasn’t a pairbond anymore.  Obi-Wan swallowed and then reached out with his thoughts, attempting to touch the shining ribbon of fluxing color that bound them together in the Force.

It was astounding.  Warm.  Wonderful.  He could have spent the rest of his life basking in the warmth he felt in that moment, and in the love intertwined within that sensation.

Qui-Gon’s smile was marred by exhaustion, but full of that same warmth.  He stroked Obi-Wan’s face with a single finger, forehead down to jawline.  “And you look wonderful, as well.”

Obi-Wan’s body was waking up as well as the rest of his awareness, and with it came a deep, painful ache in his core.  “I don’t feel it,” he muttered, and winced again at the hoarse, broken quality of his voice.

He lifted his left arm, took note of the intravenous lines, and carefully lowered his hand again.  He had a bad history of yanking out those sorts of lines prematurely.  He lifted his right arm, which was bandaged from wrist to elbow for some reason, and rested his fingertips on the lower half of his abdomen.  There was unusual warmth radiating from beneath the soft, thin fabric of his sleep shirt.

Obi-Wan drew in a startled breath, wincing when it pained him.  Right.  There had been another.  Another fighter.  Another Sith?   He couldn’t recall much of anything after being….stabbed.

Stabbed.  By a lightsaber.

Gods all, he should be _dead._

“I’m alive,” he whispered, still not quite sure he believed it.

Qui-Gon swallowed visibly and bowed his head, which confused him.  Obi-Wan reached out—difficult, as his hands and eyes didn’t seem to be working together very well yet.  He ran his hands through Qui-Gon’s hair, and heard his partner choke back a sob.

“Qui, what’s wrong?”

Qui-Gon lifted his head, tears running down his face.  That level of visible grief gave Obi-Wan a deep, internal pang that hurt almost as much as the stab wound.  “I’m sorry.  I thought—I thought I _had_ lost you.”  Qui-Gon wiped at his streaming eyes, struggling for control.  “I’ve never been more terrified in my entire life.  I’m so sorry.”

“Qui, it’s all right.”  Guilt was not acceptable, not for this.  Obi-Wan brushed his fingers across Qui-Gon’s lips, wishing his partner wasn’t sitting so blasted far away.  “It wasn’t your fault, love.  I’m still here.”

Qui-Gon laughed, despite the tears, a sound full of relief and joy.  Then he leaned forward and brushed their lips together, the faintest, sweetest hint of a kiss.  “I love you,” he whispered against Obi-Wan’s skin.  “And I’ll never go another day without saying it at least once.”

“Ambitious,” Obi-Wan whispered back.  Their lives and responsibilities guaranteed repeated separations, but he understood the intent behind the declaration, and it warmed him, driving back the residual chill in his limbs.    He lifted his head enough to deepen the kiss, taking solace in the feel of warm lips moving against his own.

When Qui-Gon tried to draw back, too soon, Obi-Wan grabbed his hair and pulled him closer, despite the searing jolt of pain in his stomach.  “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Qui-Gon murmured again, pressing another kiss to Obi-Wan’s lips before regretfully leaning back.  “I am also monopolizing you.  There is someone else who has been very worried about you.”

That gave him another painful, guilt-driven jolt—he had yet to give his Padawan a thought.  Obi-Wan touched on his bond with Anakin, and at first, he did not get a response.  Then the door flew open as the whirlwind that was his Padawan rushed into the room, skidding to a stop on the opposite side of Obi-Wan’s bed.

“You’re awake!”

“That…might be debatable.”  Obi-Wan smiled, feeling an awful return of lethargy.  This was not going to be a kind convalescence, or a short one.  He lifted his left hand for Anakin to take in a cautious, gentle grasp; Qui-Gon still had a firm grip on his right hand.  “How long have I…?”  He trailed off, frustrated when he couldn’t manage anything louder than just above a whisper.

 _Well, then,_ he thought, with a panicked sort of giddiness. _I guess I really did almost die, didn’t I?_

 _Yes._   Qui-Gon squeezed his hand.  “Five days.  If not for Anakin, Terza, Abella, Adi, and…and Yoda, you…you probably would have taken much longer to wake up.”

Obi-Wan was well-aware that Qui-Gon meant something quite different.  “Five days.  Well.  That explains a lot.”  He recalled something about waking once or twice, with many hands touching him, but it was a memory so vague as to be almost without substance.

“Are you all right?” he asked Anakin.

“I am _now._ ”  Anakin grinned at him, almost bouncing up and down in place.  “You scared me, Master.”

“Believe me, that was not…not my intention.”  Obi-Wan took in his Padawan’s bedraggled, happy state, trying to make his brain process more than one thought at a time.  “What happened with the Naboo?  How did we do?”  He assumed a victory, given the lack of tension in the room.

“The Queen’s plan worked exactly as she’d hoped,” Qui-Gon answered him.  His fingers were tracing warm circles over the palm of Obi-Wan’s hand.  “The Gungan army was successful, the Viceroy of the Trade Federation is under arrest, and the blockade has been demolished.”

Obi-Wan nodded before looking back at Anakin.  “How was it?”

Anakin understood what he meant without further clarification needed.  “It was…interesting.  It was a lot harder to do on purpose than it was by accident.”  Anakin glanced down at the floor, embarrassed.  “But it blew up nicely, all the same.”

Obi-Wan chuckled and immediately learned that it hurt to laugh.  “Imagine so,” he said, closing his eyes.  That lasted only a few seconds before he opened his eyes again, too distressed by the sensation of floating.  It was reminiscent of the after-effects of long-term immersion in bacta, or staying more than an hour in the viscous hot pools on Ralltiir.  “And…me?”

Qui-Gon’s grip on his hand tightened.  “The lightsaber burned through your abdominal wall and made a mess of things, and yet…you were very lucky in that there was nothing the Healers could not repair, or…or work around.”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.  _That is not very specific._

Qui-Gon’s jaw clenched.  _When you are further away from death, I will be able to be clinical about it, but not right now._   “You’ll have to ask Terza for details.  She wants to yell at you, anyway.”

Obi-Wan sighed, and even _that_ hurt.  He would have to get used to the idea.  “I think maybe she already did,” he said.  “It could be worse—far, far worse—so I’m not going to complain.”

When both Qui-Gon and Anakin looked pained, Obi-Wan smiled, squeezing the hands that held his own.  “Not dead, remember?” he whispered.

 _No, but it was still too damned close,_ Qui-Gon sent.

That, Obi-Wan wasn’t going to argue with.  In the meantime, someone else’s lack of presence was occurring to his unreliable, drug-addled brain.  “Where’s Rillian?” he asked, starting to feel nauseous.  Terza must have given him interesting drugs, and he could not wait for them to wear off.

“She’ll be here soon,” Qui-Gon said, moving his chair closer to the bedside.  “Rillian is representing our foursome with the Queen’s delegation to welcome the Chancellor and the Senate Guard.  The Senate actually motioned in favor of Nute Gunray’s arrest, and a trial will be held on Coruscant when things settle down.”

Obi-Wan felt a renewed chill.  “The Chancellor is coming here?  Gods, Qui, which _one?_ ”  He was holding his breath and couldn’t make himself stop.  He’d been out of the loop for days, and he remembered with frightening clarity how much could change in a short amount of time.

Qui-Gon reassured him through the bond, though reassurance came mixed with a healthy dose of apprehensive curiosity.  “Valorum, of course.”

Obi-Wan breathed out and relaxed.  That was the best news yet, and reminded him that Padmé had _not_ called for the Vote of No Confidence.  “Why aren’t you meeting him?”

Qui-Gon lifted Obi-Wan’s hand, placing a kiss on the rigid line of his knuckles.  “Because, love:  Five days ago I told you that I was not leaving you, and I meant it.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes as he felt Qui-Gon’s emotions filter through the bond, love and relief and concern—all of that, and more.  This time when Obi-Wan reached out to touch the new bond, he could feel the tiny threads strengthen as he examined it.  He thought it was pretty now, at its birth, but the Lifebond was going to be beautiful when it stabilized at full strength.

Anakin gave a discreet cough.  Obi-Wan looked at Anakin and found a huge grin on his Padawan’s face.  “So that’s what that is,” he said.  “I’m happy for you both, Master, but Mom’s gonna kill you if you don’t have some kind of ceremony for her to attend.”

Obi-Wan blinked at Anakin in groggy dismay.  “Ceremony?  Oh.  Right.  I have to think about that right now?”

Qui-Gon stood up, leaned over Obi-Wan, and kissed him again, and the raw intensity of the emotions accompanying the gentle kiss literally took his breath away.  Obi-Wan blinked away the tears that started burning his eyes.

“No, not right now,” Qui-Gon said, when they broke apart.  “In a few months, perhaps.”

“Good.”  Obi-Wan took a deep breath and then waggled a finger at Anakin, motioning for him to come closer.  “You two are staying with me, and as soon as Rillian is done being official, I’d like for her to join us.”  If he sounded greedy at that moment, he didn’t particularly care. 

“You are my family, and I want to keep you all close.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan passed out before Rillian returned.  When he woke up, he had a nauseating moment of panic, wondering if he’d slept straight through to the next day. 

 _No, you didn’t._   Qui-Gon reached out without looking up from the datapad he held, giving Obi-Wan’s hand a gentle squeeze.  _It’s only been six hours._   Out loud, he said, “Rillian?”

Obi-Wan smiled when he got a gentle armload of enthusiastic, black-and-silver Wookiee.  “Hi, Rillian.”

[Hello!] she replied, her eyes shining with happiness.  [You look better!]

“You mean I look conscious,” Obi-Wan said, and refused to visibly wince when the lightsaber burn pulled and pained him.

[Conscious _and_ better,] Rillian replied, smiling.  She refused to budge from his side until Anakin came back, whereupon she only moved over enough to allow him to sit next to her.

Obi-Wan thought that perhaps Valorum had stopped in to see him at one point during his impromptu nap, but wasn’t certain.  There had definitely been other Jedi drifting in and out.  Someone—possibly Siri—had kissed his forehead, and the feel of that blessing still lingered.

 _What are you reading?_ Obi-Wan asked, while the Padawans entertained him with summaries of what had happened on the day of the Battle of Theed.  Jar Jar Binks survived, as Obi-Wan knew he would, and Quinlan still didn’t quite believe it.

 _Research,_ Qui-Gon replied, sounding perturbed.  _I’ll let you know when I’m done whether I find anything, or if it is as fruitless as I suspect it will be._

Obi-Wan let it go, and realized only after Terza came in sometime later that he’d barely tracked that conversation at all.  He wound up having a very quiet but earnest argument with the Healer, insisting that she stop drugging him to the point of near-delirium.  He was not against painkillers—not at all—but he wanted to be alert while he was conscious.  Terza had almost refused to budge until he’d promised, without prompting, to tell someone immediately if something felt wrong after the dosage was eased.

By the time she let him to sit up, he was clear-headed again.  The biobed only allowed for a slight tilt, so someone had gone to the trouble of filching pillows for him to rest on.  Given the ornate nature and the expensive fabrics, Obi-Wan thought that the Palace staff was probably on the lookout for stolen pillows and thieving Padawans.

Rillian refused to admit to anything; Anakin had only shrugged and said that Padmé would drown him in pillows if Obi-Wan asked for it.

Obi-Wan made a face.  “Please, don’t let anyone actually attempt that.”

“Just as long as you don’t try to sit up further or get out of that bed,” Terza warned him.  Obi-Wan didn’t think that was going to be a problem—he was still sweating from the spike of pain he’d received just from getting himself into this position.  He was content not to argue the point.

Yet.

Anakin and Rillian went out to join the Queen, after convincing themselves that Obi-Wan was both comfortable and not liable to relapse any time in the next few hours.  Padmé was seeking some desperately needed time away from the grueling task of rebuilding the capital, not to mention seeing to the deconstruction of the internment camps, and had requested their company while she hid in Handmaiden guise.

Terza waited until Anakin and Rillian left before she sat down in Anakin’s vacated chair.  “I suspect you want details, then.”

“Very much so,” Obi-Wan said, and then glanced at Qui-Gon.  “Unless you don’t wish to hear this?”

Qui-Gon sighed.  “It’s fine.  I know the details, I’m just not ready to…”  He waved his hand around in a helpless arc.

Terza nodded.  “I’ll refrain from anything overly dramatic, then,” she said, and Qui-Gon snorted in wry acknowledgement.  “You’re in a temporary infirmary on Theed’s outskirts, one of several dozen small establishments.”

Obi-Wan nodded.  Abella had told him about the infirmaries while the drugs were clearing from his head, using the narrative as a way to track how well he was parsing information.  The main medical center had been heavily damaged during the initial occupation by the Trade Federation.  Theed’s doctors, nurses, and assorted medics had spread themselves thin trying to cover enough ground.

“The damage to both muscular walls was the easiest to repair, and when I say ‘easy,’ I mean that is what will heal with minimal scarring,” Terza said.  “Internally is another matter entirely.  You lost one of your kidneys, your spleen, half of your liver, and enough of your intestinal tract that I actually had to override part of Naboo’s medical restrictions and supplement with cloned tissue from the closest genetic match available—which is not very close at all, as I’m sure you can guess.”

Obi-Wan grimaced.  “Tissue rejection?”

“Not after _we_ got finished with you,” Terza all but growled.  “You don’t get to do anything to prove us wrong, either.”

Obi-Wan gave her a noncommittal nod.  In return, Terza gave him the long list of restrictions he would likely be chafing against before the week was out.  His diet was not going to be thrilling, but that wasn’t much of a concern.  He didn’t even have an appetite yet.  It was the lack of tea that might drive him to distraction, but Terza surprised him and said it was allowable in limited doses.

“Your kidney is going to need the assistance,” she said, amused by his disbelieving look.  “Green, decaffeinated, and no more than two cups a day.”

Obi-Wan frowned.  Caffeine would have been damned useful against the naps that kept sneaking up on him.

 _Case in point,_ Obi-Wan thought, when he opened his eyes later to find the glow of late afternoon sun pushing its way past the window blinds.  He twitched the wrong way and bit his lip when the movement caused considerably more pain than it had hours before.  He breathed through it, refusing to let it cripple him; he’d learned a long time ago that pain meant you were still alive.

That was an excellent reminder.  “Where in the hell did that other Sith come from?” he asked, turning his head to find that Qui-Gon and Yoda were the only ones in the room.  “And who was it?”

Yoda was sitting on Qui-Gon’s appropriated bed, his eyes closed.  If the sound was any indication, he was humming tunes that had been new when the ancient Master was young.

Qui-Gon set aside the datapad he’d been frowning at.  From the way he kept rubbing his forehead, Obi-Wan suspected he was giving himself one wrathful headache.  “It wasn’t a second Sith,” he said.  “What do you remember?”

“Getting skewered,” Obi-Wan said promptly, and found himself forcing back a cough when his throat developed an alarming tickle.  Coughing would be bad—he did _not_ want to pass out from a damned coughing fit.

When he noticed Qui-Gon’s pained look, Obi-Wan flushed.  “Sorry, Qui,” he said, lowering his voice back down to his earlier not-quite-whisper strength.  “I never saw him, and I think I missed a good deal of your…your conversation.”

Yoda stopped humming and opened his eyes.  “Knew this one, you did not?” he asked, curious.  Obi-Wan shook his head.

“He called himself a Hand of Sidious.”  Qui-Gon rested his clasped hands in his lap, and Yoda gave them both his strict, undivided attention.  Obi-Wan guessed that this was the first chance anyone had taken to discuss what had happened in the generator complex.

“I didn’t get an actual name from him,” Qui-Gon said.  “He told me that he was sent to shadow Darth Maul through his final test, and finish it for him if Maul failed.  Do you know anything about this?”

Obi-Wan bit his lip.  He didn’t, and that was almost as concerning as his recent near-death.  Granted, after the first fight in the melting pit, other things had been on his mind.  “I haven’t heard of anything like that before, no.  Did Anakin mention anything?”  He didn’t like the possibility of Anakin remembering such a thing, but he wasn’t foolish enough to discount his Padawan as a source of information.  Not for this.

Qui-Gon nodded, which was alarming until he spoke.  “Anakin said that it sounded vaguely familiar, but he didn’t recognize the man when I showed him a vid scan from the pit’s security monitors.”

“I’d like to see that later,” Obi-Wan said, if only because he’d really did want to get a good look at the man who’d tried to kill him.

“There are plenty of copies,” Qui-Gon told him.  “I had duplicate scans made that will be given to the Senate delegation on their way to investigate the Federation’s actions on Naboo.  Senator Palpatine has already said that he would be very interested in such a thing.”

Obi-Wan sat bolt upright, then gasped and almost blacked out as sharp, tearing pain assaulted him.  He’d all but doubled over, trying to make it _stop_ , before he felt Qui-Gon’s hands on his back.  Soothing warmth came from the contact, and cool ease flooded in from the Lifebond.

Obi-Wan slumped against Qui-Gon’s broad frame, breathing in shallow gasps.  Qui-Gon held him while carding his fingers through Obi-Wan’s tangled hair.  Yoda’s Force-presence brushed along Obi-Wan’s body, leaving tingling, Healing energy in its wake.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Qui-Gon demanded in a quiet voice.

“Sorry.”  Obi-Wan was still panting for breath, but he was slowly mastering the pain, bringing it to heel under his control.  He had a vague memory of being hurt far worse, once, but couldn’t recall exactly when—and right then, it didn’t even seem possible.  “It’s just…you said that Senator Palpatine is coming here?”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon replied.  Obi-Wan could sense his confusion as if he were voicing it.  “He’ll be here in two days.”

Obi-Wan felt Qui-Gon and Yoda exchange a flurry of mental communication, more snatches of emotion than actual words.  He ignored it; he was busy focusing on what he had just been told.  He didn’t have much time to plan what was probably going to be one of the most insane acts of his life, and he couldn’t even _walk._

He laughed, the sound quickly degenerating into a pained, near-hysterical giggle.  “Sounds great.”  He kept laughing, unable to stop, even though it hurt so much that tears were running down his face.  It was enough to soak in the heat from his mate’s body, to bask in his projected love.

“You’re nuts,” Qui-Gon said in an amused murmur, nuzzling the top of Obi-Wan’s head.  “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Obi-Wan replied.  There was a nudge against his thoughts, a gentle suggestion that he rest.  He closed his eyes, but told his mind to wake him at dawn even as he began a low-key healing trance.

There was so much to do.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan didn’t wake up at dawn, which was irritating, but at least he’d only missed it by an hour.  He glanced to his left; Qui-Gon was still asleep, his hair almost covering his face, one arm hanging off the cot so that his fingers brushed the floor.

Remembering yesterday’s harsh lesson, Obi-Wan sat up slowly, ready for another biting return of pain.  When it came, it wasn’t nearly as bad as before.  It was enough to make him grit his teeth, but he didn’t want to scream.  When the initial pain faded, what remained was a deep, dull, too-warm ache that would likely be with him for weeks, if not months, promising to drain his energy levels and strip his reserves to nothing.

Exhaustion was probably going to slow his recovery more than the injury itself.

It took three tries to get his thoughts focused enough to use the Force, turning off the life support equipment.  He did not want to listen to shrill, angry alarms, or attract any more attention than he was already going to earn this day.

Obi-Wan’s left hand was still not quite steady, his fingers trembling, as he raised his arm.  There were three intravenous lines—medication, nutrient feed, and saline.  He took a breath and pulled the first line in the same moment, then clamped down on his skin just as blood tried to follow it out.  Force healing sealed the wound and washed away any hint of irritation, but the act also left him light-headed and blinking dark spots out of his vision.

Fuck.  This was going to take a while.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon opened his eyes, automatically regarding the bed across from him.  Sunlight was streaming in around the window blinds; his sense of time told him that it was mid-morning.  He’d slept through the entire night and then some.

He spent a disoriented moment wondering what was wrong with the sight of that empty bed before realization struck.

Qui-Gon sat up, but panic was quelled as quickly as it tried to form.  Obi-Wan was only a short distance away, standing motionless in the middle of the room.  The way the loose white garb hung off of his lean frame was almost as much of a shock as his partner being upright to begin with—he knew Obi-Wan had lost weight in the past few days, but the reality of it was alarming.

“Good morning,” Obi-Wan whispered, his eyes flickering over to meet Qui-Gon’s gaze.  His features were white and pinched.  “Sleep well?”

Qui-Gon made a sound that was close to a growl of complete dismay as he leapt out of bed.  He pressed in close against Obi-Wan’s side, a blatant offer of support that might or might not be accepted.

“What are you doing up?” he asked, unnerved and trying not to let that segue into true distress.

“Walking?” Obi-Wan hedged.  He grimaced and leaned against Qui-Gon.  “At least, that was the idea.  I made it this far, and couldn’t quite convince myself to go any further.”

Qui-Gon clenched his jaw.  “You shouldn’t be up at all.  Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?”

“No,” Obi-Wan snapped in response, his eyes flashing.  “I’m _trying_ to get to the damned ’fresher.”

They stared at each other before they both burst into shocked laughter. 

It was only moments before his partner’s laughter turned to pained huffs of air.  He rested his head against Qui-Gon’s chest.  “Oh, gods.  I think I needed that.”

“So did I,” Qui-Gon admitted, feeling a great deal of the week’s tension draining out of him.  “You do seem better than you were yesterday, especially if you’ve managed to get out of bed.”

“I am not above cheating.”

Qui-Gon grasped Obi-Wan’s left hand and was not surprised that a faint hint of redness was the only remaining mark from the intravenous lines.  When his partner was bound and determined to escape a Healer’s clutches, there wasn’t much to do to stop him aside from outright sedation.

“You are _not_ sedating me,” Obi-Wan said, his voice wry and amused.  “I had to be able to get up.  I need to be mobile by tomorrow.”

Qui-Gon opened his mouth to ask, and then held his tongue.  “All right.  I’ll argue with you later.  First, the ’fresher, and I _will_ help you.  Falling would not help matters.”

“No, it probably wouldn’t,” Obi-Wan agreed, his voice going faint as they stepped forward together.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan activated the tap and carefully ducked his head underneath the sink faucet.  Cold water ran through his hair and down his face, gentle and soothing.  It was only sheer force of will that kept him from panting for breath, or from curling up in a corner of the room and giving up.  Getting out of bed was bad enough, but a walk of only a few meters had been devastating.  Every step had sent waves of agony through his core, like his body was trying to tear itself apart.

He had a strong suspicion that he’d just joined Micah on the disabled list, that small group of Jedi who’d survived life-threatening injuries but could never physically serve in the field again.  He really hoped not—despite everything he’d been through, he would rather be in an active role, not confined to Temple-based assignments for his own safety.

 _I suppose I could be a teacher,_ Obi-Wan mused.  He hadn’t actually disliked teaching, but so many of his skills were based in the physical, or in violence.  Those skills that were not, the Temple was not yet ready to learn of.  Soon, perhaps, but not right now.

 _You would make an excellent teacher,_ Qui-Gon replied, though Obi-Wan hadn’t realized he’d been sharing the thought.  _But I hope the damage isn’t permanent.  I would miss you if I was forced to go on missions without you._

 _You’d get shot at less,_ Obi-Wan pointed out.  He turned off the water before lifting his head.  His reflection stared back, a pale man with wet, dripping red hair and shock-wide eyes.  His pupils were too large, eating the blue of the irises; pain and fatigue had created unnatural lines on his skin.

 _I would find that hard to get used to, at this point,_ Qui-Gon said, his words accompanied by grieved amusement.

Obi-Wan stood up slowly, with a single angry twinge in his gut to show for it.  He smiled at his mirror image, but that only highlighted the fact that he was verging on gaunt.

His smile turned grim as he held his breath and raised his arms, tying his hair back into a single tail.  His eyes were burning with suppressed tears by the time he was done.  His muscles were cramping and fluttering, threatening collapse. 

Obi-Wan grasped the sides of the sink and breathed until he was certain he could walk without falling.  He’d lived with chronic pain before.  He could do so again.

Qui-Gon was waiting for him just outside the ’fresher, as patient as stone.  Obi-Wan went willingly into the circle of his arms.  “I’d miss you, too,” Obi-Wan said.  He was shaking from even that brief walk; it was a relief to rest against his mate’s warm body.  He refused to wince when the weight of Qui-Gon’s arm over his back set off a painful twinge in his healing wound.

“Sorry,” Qui-Gon murmured, shifting his arm away from the most sensitive area.

“Look at it this way, Qui:  You’ll drive the Council insane, traveling with two Padawans under your charge.”

Qui-Gon’s soft laugh vibrated in his chest.  “The accusations of corruption would never cease.” 

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of his partner’s—his _mate’s_ —arms around him.  It was the best damned therapy he could imagine.

“What. In. The. Hell. Do. You. Think. You’re. Doing?”

Obi-Wan drew in a steadying breath before turning around to face an enraged Healer.  “Holding my mate.”

Terza was glaring daggers at him as she strode forward, her robes flaring out behind her.  “What are you doing out of that bed?  Are you out of your damned _mind?_ ”

“Sadly, no,” Obi-Wan tried to say, but Terza interrupted him.  It was just as well; he was trying very hard not to smile after Qui-Gon used the Lifebond to meekly offer to protect him from the scary Healer.

“You nearly _died_ six days ago!” Terza bit out.  “Your body is a wreck, and you will get your shaking, stubborn ass back into that bed—”

Obi-Wan shook his head.  “I’m needed, Terza.”

“Bullshit!” the Healer roared back.  Obi-Wan flinched, amusement forgotten.  He’d been witness to Terza losing her temper before, but it had been only the once, a long time ago.

“I don’t need to hear any of the nonsense you and your lot spout when you’re injured,” Terza said.  Her voice was quieter, but no less angry.  “The galaxy is going to have to do without you, Obi-Wan Kenobi!”

 _Can’t it?_ Qui-Gon asked.  He’d been catching hints of his idea, had to have, for the sort of worry that Obi-Wan was picking up through the bond.

_You have no idea how much I wish that it could._

Obi-Wan reached out and gripped Terza’s hand in both of his, holding on when she tried to yank her hand free.  “Jale,” he said in a soft voice.  “You know me well enough by now to remember that I have always listened to you, and always done as you instructed when under your care.”

“Mostly,” Terza admitted grudgingly.

“Micah Giett is who you need to speak to about actively sneaking out of the Ward when Ra’suul isn’t looking,” Obi-Wan replied.  He was guilty of that, yes, but he hadn’t done that to her in _this_ time and place.  “I need you to understand how very important this is.  If I am willing to neglect your instructions, after an injury such as this, then the need is dire and you know it.”

Terza looked away, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.  “Damn you, Obi-Wan.  You’re too much of a Jedi for your own blasted good.”  He released her hand when she tugged it out of his grip, then watched as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her tunic sleeve.

“All right:  What is so important that you’re willing to try and cripple yourself over it?”

Qui-Gon grasped Obi-Wan’s hand.  His mate had discerned the focus of Obi-Wan’s scheming.

“The other Sith, Terza,” Obi-Wan said, smiling without humor.  “He’s coming here, tomorrow, and I am the only one of us who will truly know what to expect from him.”

Obi-Wan could have told everyone, in intimate detail, what he had once witnessed via pilfered Senate security recordings.  He could tell them of Yoda’s shaking hands, his wide eyes and disturbed features, when the ancient Master had talked of standing in Sidious’s shadow.  He could give a full speech on what it would be like to stand before a Dark Lord of the Sith—and it wouldn’t be enough.  Words were empty husks in comparison to the real thing.

Obi-Wan had matched lightsabers with three different Apprentices, and once had nearly died from it…but that was a long time ago.  He had learned a great deal since those times, and it was not arrogance or conceit to think so.  He _knew_ it, just as he knew that now was the time to stop the Sith.  There could be no delay, or the galaxy would suffer.

“You do have an idea, then?” Qui-Gon asked, curious.

Obi-Wan nodded.  “I do.  I’m willing to debate its brilliance, but so far, it’s all I’ve got.  I will need help, though.”

“Fine.”  Terza straightened, putting both Healer and Jedi mask back into place until she was the image of serene composure.  “I don’t like this at all, but since there is no dissuading you, what can I do?”

“I need to be healed enough so that I can at least stand and walk without collapsing,” Obi-Wan said, unsurprised when Terza’s eyes narrowed.  “I don’t plan on fighting anyone, but I need to at least…”  He smiled.  “I need to at least look as if I could.”

 _And I really hope it doesn’t come to that,_ he thought.

 _It had better not,_ Qui-Gon muttered.

“That won’t matter,” Terza said, resting her hands on her hips.  “Moving is still going to hurt you, no matter what I can accomplish in a single day’s cycle.  If someone hits you where you were struck—”

Obi-Wan tried not to grimace.  That didn’t sound pleasant at all.  “I will just have to make certain that they don’t,” he said, thinking of the Naboo Security Force’s body armor, worn under the thick leather of their uniforms.

 _I suggest two sets,_ Qui-Gon sent.  The words were teasing, but the emotions behind them were utterly serious.

 _I need to be able to move, not waddle,_ Obi-Wan replied, lacing the words with warm affection.

“Then what do you need from me?” Qui-Gon asked.  “Because I promise you, you are not allowed to leave this room until whatever insane plan you’ve concocted is about to commence.”

Obi-Wan didn’t feel a need to argue with that.  Getting everything done was going to be exhausting, even if others did the footwork.  “I must speak with everyone today:  the Jedi that remain on Naboo, the Queen, Captain Panaka, and Chancellor Valorum.  This involves them all, for varying reasons.”

Obi-Wan hesitated.  “Entrapment, Qui-Gon,” he said in a low voice, and was not surprised by his mate’s sharp intake of breath.  He wasn’t looking forward to explaining that to anyone else, either.

It also left him with one single, glaring difficulty.  If seeing the Sith in his public guise on Coruscant had been a shock, what came next was going to be infinitely worse.

He did not want to do this.  He was—gods all, he was actually fucking _terrified._

 

*          *          *          *

 

Qui-Gon found Micah first.  Ostensibly it should have been the Head of the Order he approached, but he wanted…

Gods, he wanted to tell _someone_ what he’d discerned via Obi-Wan’s thoughts, and Micah was the safest victim he could think of.

“You are not fucking serious,” Micah said, once he was told.

“I am.”  Qui-Gon grimaced.  “It sounds unbelievable, I know.”

“Qui-Gon, it sounds insane.  Is he—is Obi-Wan certain about this?” Micah asked.

“Micah, Obi-Wan is—” Qui-Gon hesitated.  “Obi-Wan is actually afraid of that man.”  That was what had convinced him, without the need yet for further detail.  Obi-Wan hadn’t wanted to fight Maul, but his fears had been centered in the possibility of Qui-Gon’s death, or of Anakin coming to harm.  He hadn’t feared the Sith Apprentice, but he dreaded confronting the Sith Master.

Micah ran one hand over his face before sighing.  “Fuck.  Now I’m doubly glad there are so many of us here.  All right; I’ll go round up the relevant parties.  Give us about a half-hour?”

Qui-Gon nodded and returned to the infirmary.  He didn’t find Terza at Obi-Wan’s bedside, but Abella.  Obi-Wan was curled up on his side, oblivious to their presence.  There was a frown on his face, a furrowed line between his eyes.  Obi-Wan would never complain of it, but it was obvious that he was still in a great deal of pain.

 _Oh, love,_ Qui-Gon thought, as waves of sympathy and grief both tried to swamp him.  _I’d chide you for stubbornness, but I would be an absolute hypocrite to do so._

Abella’s clawed hand was resting on Obi-Wan’s hip, her fingertips glowing with the faint white light of Force Healing.  “How long do I have?” she asked, without looking up from her work.

“Twenty-five minutes, at this point.”

Abella nodded.  “Then I will stop in fifteen, so that you both can prepare for this meeting.  Master told me,” she said, when Qui-Gon glanced at her in surprise.

“That should be enough.”  Qui-Gon was thinking of how much Obi-Wan still had to struggle to sit up from a prone position.  Standing up from that point was less difficult, but unpleasant.

By the time Abella finished her healing, Qui-Gon had more or less gotten his own reeling thoughts under control.  Obi-Wan awoke the moment that Qui-Gon’s hand came down on his shoulder.  “Already?” he asked, his voice rough from both sleep and the beginning of his lengthy convalescence.

“Ten minutes until then.  I thought perhaps you’d like to be upright before everyone arrived.”

“Good idea,” Obi-Wan muttered, trying to use his left arm and elbow to sit up.  “Fuck, can you—”  Qui-Gon put his hand on Obi-Wan’s back and pushed, slow and gentle, until Obi-Wan hissed in pain.  “No, keep going, I want to actually fucking well be sitting _up_.”

“Getting there is one thing,” Qui-Gon said, taking in the pained grimace on Obi-Wan’s face, and the sweat breaking out on his skin.  “Can you actually stay upright once you get there?”

Obi-Wan thought about it until his left arm began to tremble from the effort of keeping himself propped up.  “Fuck.  No.  I can’t.”

“Pillows?”  Qui-Gon knew the suggestion wasn’t going to be accepted when Obi-Wan growled something incomprehensible about dignity.  “Then you’ll just have to let me do it.  Unless that is also undignified?”

“Less undignified than fancy, fluffy, jewel-embroidered monstrosities,” Obi-Wan said, managing a half-hearted smile.  “And I—I wouldn’t mind if you were at my back.  I think your literal support might make it a lot easier to get through this meeting.”

Qui-Gon nodded.  “I would be happy to.  Also, I have a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Obi-Wan repeated, suspicious, and then his eyes lit up at the sight of one of his own shirts.  “Oh, gods, thank you.  If I had to live in this outfit for much longer, I’d stage a revolt.”

“You already did that,” Qui-Gon pointed out, and smiled when Obi-Wan glared at him.

Getting the medical shirt off was easy; putting the other one on was not.  Obi-Wan looked as if he was just shy of tears when it was done, but afterwards, his sense in the Force eased down to something approaching relaxed.  Not quite at ease, not with those threads of pain and apprehension twining around him, but far better than before.

Qui-Gon settled into place behind him, unashamedly using the Force to help support his mate.  He pulled the tie from Obi-Wan’s hair, releasing the straggling copper from its rough tail.  “I’m going to do something about this, too,” he told Obi-Wan, when Obi-Wan tried to turn around and look at him in confusion.  “Another day of this, and you’ll have nothing left but knots.”

“Good idea,” Obi-Wan said, but then his voice fell into a faint purr as Qui-Gon worked a brush through his hair.  A shower would be much kinder, but that would have to come later.  Instead, Qui-Gon separated his hair into three proper strands and braided it, creating a tail long enough to hang between his shoulder blades.

“I should probably cut that off at some point,” Obi-Wan said.

“Your choice, of course,” Qui-Gon replied, using the original tie to cap the braid and keep it from unravelling.  “I like your hair in any form.”

“Not a Padawan cut,” Obi-Wan grumbled.

“Oh, I daresay I would like that, too,” Qui-Gon said.  Obi-Wan’s response was not something he was capable of translating, and made him smile again.  Spit and fire; that was his copper-haired imp.

Qui-Gon encouraged Obi-Wan to lean against him.  Obi-Wan’s back resting against his chest was solid, warm weight—a vast relief from the cold that had chilled his limbs those first few days.

“Spoiled,” Obi-Wan murmured.

Qui-Gon shook his head.  “Basic kindnesses from another person won’t spoil anyone, Obi-Wan.”

“I know.  I’m still getting used to the idea of having someone else around for that sort of care in the first place,” Obi-Wan confessed.

Qui-Gon considered that, and some of the faint imprints coming through the Lifebond.  “What are you afraid of?”

“Do you remember what I said of the war?  That when it ended, things got worse?” Obi-Wan asked.

“I do.”

“That.  That’s what I’m afraid of,” Obi-Wan said softly.  There was a whisper of pain, shock and grief intertwined, but whatever lay behind those emotions, Obi-Wan would not let him see.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan unashamedly basked in the presence of so many Force sensitives gathered in a small space.  There was warmth and happiness broadcast on all fronts, a clear reminder that he was not alone in this.

He was doubly grateful that he’d pushed, and that Yoda was a manipulative old troll.  If no other Jedi had been on Naboo save himself, Qui-Gon, and the Padawans, he wouldn’t dare attempt this at all, not in this condition.

Then again, he wouldn’t be alive, either.

Qui-Gon was a warm, reassuring presence at his back, supporting him when Obi-Wan’s exhausted muscles would have given up on this seated nonsense after the first few minutes.  Qui-Gon’s long hair drifted forward on occasion, a caress of silky strands over his neck.

 _You’re doing a really good job of presenting as Important Jedi, even though you look like you’re gonna fall over at any moment,_ Garen told him, after tugging Siri to the side so that the Padawans could enter the room.

 _Thanks,_ Obi-Wan replied dryly.  He could sense that Garen wanted to ask questions, but restrained himself.  Siri was all but vibrating in place as she recognized the atmosphere in the room for the battle-planning it had to be.

Rillian and Anakin shoved themselves into the chair closest to the bedside, leaving Yoda, Tuuvino, and Micah to share the cot.  Everyone else stood, claiming available wall space, all but jostling elbows trying to make room for those who had yet to arrive.

Finis Valorum entered five minutes past his original projected arrival time, performing one of his famous escapes from the Chancellor’s Guard.  He strode forward without hesitation and clasped Obi-Wan’s offered hand. 

“I am very glad to see you conscious,” Valorum said, smiling.  “Now I truly believe that you will be all right.”

Obi-Wan smiled back, touched by the genuine sentiment the Chancellor offered.  “You just don’t want to have to train new diplomatic couriers.”

Valorum’s expression turned serious.  “Could you blame me?  I would find myself hard-pressed to replace either of you.”  He turned as Queen Amidala entered the room, flanked by Panaka.  The captain conferred for a brief moment with Terza before the Healer left the room.  She preferred to keep herself and her Padawan out of planning and the coming potential conflict, if only because well-rested Healers might become a necessity.

Gods, but Obi-Wan hoped not.  He was in enough pain as it was.

“It’s a pleasure to greet you under kinder circumstances than those that preceded this visit,” Valorum said to her, bowing over her hand.

Padmé was dressed the same way she had on Tatooine, which meant her blue shirt and the Chancellor’s blue robes of office stood out in stark contrast to the dominant creams and browns in the room.  “Forgive me, Chancellor, but Queen Amidala is not here.  She is busy having lunch with her closest advisors, and knows nothing about clandestine meetings on the outskirts of Theed.”

Valorum’s eyes filled with intrigued amusement.  “Of course.  How very silly of me to have mistaken you for another, Padmé,” he said in tones of perfect understanding.

Padmé smiled at the Chancellor before turning her attention to Obi-Wan.  She came to the bed and embraced him, an almost too-gentle encircling of her arms.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Padmé whispered into his ear.  “The last thing I wanted was your death on my conscience.”  When she stepped back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Obi-Wan stared back, nonplussed.  “I seem to recall volunteering,” he offered.  He would have expected that sort of emotional response from a Senator he’d known in a distant future, but not the young Queen.

“That doesn’t matter,” Padmé retorted.  Emotional upset became virtuous steel.  “Tell us what you must, Master Jedi.  My available time is short.”

“All of you gathered here are used to hiding your true thoughts and intentions, in a political arena or otherwise.”  Obi-Wan glanced at Rillian and Anakin, and then at Tuuvino.  “Or you can quickly learn to do so.  This ability is about to be of utmost importance, as what I have to say is supported by no direct evidence, and borders upon sedition.”

Valorum’s chin had lifted with every word he spoke.  “Well, then.  Now I understand the request for secrecy.”

Obi-Wan nodded.  “Listen:  There are six Senators and their aides arriving in Theed tomorrow evening.  One of those Senators is one of the most powerful Sith Lords to ever exist.”

There was a long, harsh minute of silence.  The gathered Jedi alternated between grim dismay and quiet shock.  Padmé and Valorum made no attempt to hide the horror that his words evoked.

Mace was staring at him.  “That is a very short list of possibilities.”

“All of the members of that particular delegation are Senators that I have worked with personally, many times over the years,” Valorum whispered, “and you tell me that one of these beings is a Sith Lord?”

“The Master to the dead Apprentice, wherever his body wound up,” Obi-Wan said.

Quinlan snorted.  “Locked him in a morgue freezer.  I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

Obi-Wan considered it.  Probably not, but he wouldn’t be entirely reassured until Maul’s body was burnt to ash.

He then looked at Padmé.  “This Sith Lord has long-term goals regarding the Republic, and the Jedi, and he will accomplish these goals with the tool of political chaos.  He thrives on the opportunities it creates, hiding his true work under the cover of altruism and good will.  His current objective is control of the Republic, and a Sith who controls the Republic is one who is in the perfect position to tear every single bit of it apart.”

Padmé understood at once, paling to the roots of her hair.  “No,” she breathed in denial.  “He—oh, dearest gods.  Senator Palpatine wanted me to call for a Vote of No Confidence in Chancellor Valorum.”  She gave Valorum a look that was both apologetic and concerned.  “The Senator was distraught when I did not do so.”

“Palpatine?” Micah repeated in disbelief.  “That—that—”

“That kind and charitable man.”  Adi spoke the words as if they were distasteful.  “I feel ill.”

“Was he a Senator who turned Sith, or was he a Sith who turned Senator?” Tuuvino asked, and then hunched his shoulders when the Masters in the room turned to look at him.  “Sorry.”

“Do not apologize for a valid question, Padawan,” Mace said, stern but not harsh.

“Nobody knows,” Obi-Wan answered Tuuvino.  “I did say that there was a terrible lack of evidence for the accusation.”

“I understand what you mean now, Master Kenobi.”  Valorum’s eyes were shining with the hard light of his anger.  “It really does smack of sedition.  How do you know of this?”

“Once upon a time, I had an experience that even now I could not really explain to you.  Call it a Force vision, for lack of a better term.  The Senator features heavily within it.”  Obi-Wan hated calling it a vision, but in front of Valorum and Padmé, the term would have to do.

Anakin surprised Obi-Wan by speaking then, and there were ghosts in his eyes that should not have been.  “Palpatine is your best friend to your face, but he’ll steal everything you have while your back is turned.”

Obi-Wan spared his Padawan a concerned look.  It seemed more and more as if Anakin was verging on remembering more than just faint details of their shared experience, and he did _not_ want that for his Padawan.

“My question is this:  Do you want to do something about it?”  Obi-Wan glanced around the room.  “Right now, he is theoretically in a position to be watched, and evidence could possibly be procured in other ways.”

Valorum shook his head.  “I know my history,” he said, after exchanging looks with Yoda and Mace.  “The Sith are creatures of destruction.  If such a monster is hiding himself under my rule, then I am damned well going to do something about it _now_.  I will not wait until after the damage is done.”

Padmé bit her lip, the only sign of nerves she allowed herself before her features settled back into the Queen’s icy resolve.  “You have my support, Obi-Wan, and the Naboo will do what we can to help.  I trusted that man.  If it had not been for another’s honesty—” she nodded at him “—I might have been the one to give him exactly what he wanted.”

“Hard to see, the Dark Side is.”  Yoda sounded bitter.  “Sensed nothing, I did.  Good intentions, Senator Palpatine professed to have.”  He shook his head, his luminous eyes filled with dismay and sadness.  “Losing my touch, am I?”

“Losing your touch, you are not,” Obi-Wan told him firmly, “and neither is anyone else.  He has placed a Veil over the whole of Coruscant, Master Yoda.  I did not suspect its presence until just recently, and the only reason I considered the possibility at all is because of events from my vision.”

Yoda’s ears lowered.  “Told me, you should have.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, fighting back the acid response he wanted to give.  Instead, he said, “I didn’t tell you because of the very thoughts you have in your head right at this moment.  I happen to like you alive, Master.”

Yoda glared at him, but did not comment.

Obi-Wan clasped his hands together to hide their trembling.  The very thought of what he was about to speak of brought back all of the fear he’d been fighting upon realizing what he must do.  “The Jedi cannot simply step forward and destroy this man, as is our ancient pledge.  The damage to the Order might not be seen right away, but it would be catastrophic.  The Republic respects Palpatine, and he is well-loved both by all his constituents in the Chommell Sector and many of his fellow Senators.”

Adi sighed.  “The echoes of that seeming betrayal would not end there.  I wondered about those rumors spreading about a loss of faith in the Jedi Order.  I suppose now we know their source.”

“Exactly.  We also cannot simply call for his arrest because of that irritating lack of evidence,” Obi-Wan said.  “Believe me, Palpatine knows how to cover his tracks.  Even Nute Gunray is not aware of the true identity of the man who convinced him to initiate the blockade.”

 _Are you okay?_ Rillian asked through her new training bond.  Obi-Wan glanced at her, surprised by the unexpected question.

 _Yes._   He had to be.

 _It’ll be fine,_ Anakin joined in, speaking to them both.  _Palpatine’s just…well.  Scary._

Obi-Wan shivered, cold for no reason that he could fathom.  It made him doubly grateful for the warmth at his back, and the reassurance of Qui-Gon’s presence.

Siri was smiling, the predatory look she got when shenanigans were afoot.  “We just need to find ourselves some evidence, and I know that look.  Got something in mind?”

Obi-Wan gave her a thin smile of acknowledgement.  Trust Siri to get right to the point.  “I do, though if anyone has any better ideas, believe me, I will be _glad_ to hear them.”

“Well, spit it out, then,” Micah said, his smile just as humorless.  “Tell us how to take the bastard down.”

“How do you destroy those who are politically powerful without suffering damning consequences?” Obi-Wan asked.  The most basic of diplomatic tools often served him well.

“Assassination,” Vos muttered.

Garen had his arms crossed over his chest.  “And when violence isn’t the answer, you destroy their power base.”

“For the benefit of the Padawans:  We do that how?” Obi-Wan asked.

Mace did not look pleased.  “Character assassination, but I’m not sure we have the time for that sort of subtlety.”

Obi-Wan nodded agreement with Mace’s words.  “That’s why we are going to make certain that our powerful figure performs his own character assassination.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Quinlan popped the lock on the drawer and pulled the door open, flinching at the cold rush of air that poured out.  That wasn’t just temperature, but a filthy impression of straight-up Darkness.

Refusing to be cowed by remnants, he grasped the handle and yanked the drawer out, revealing the dead Zabrak’s partially destroyed body.  “Meet Darth Maul, Padawan.”

“Gross,” Aayla pronounced, wincing as she noticed the dual lightsaber wounds that had killed the Sith.  “Also, he stinks.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” Quinlan said, and caught the container of liquefied mint that Theed’s coroner tossed at him.  “Put this on, under your nose.  It’ll help.”  

The fucker had started to rot _fast_ , faster than a humanoid body should have.  When Quinlan finally got to the melting pit to gather up Sithly evidence, there had been a pronounced stench in the room—unwashed body and rotting flesh and putridness and Force knew what the hell else.

“Gloves, you idiot,” Muln said, when Quinlan went to reach for the body.  “I don’t even want to touch this dead fuck, so who knows what it would do to you.”

Quinlan glared at him.  “I was fine.”

“You told me that you threw up.”  Muln shoved a pair of plastine gloves at him.  “Also, I’m pretty sure there are rules about not handling dead bodies bare-handed because of, you know, basic cleanliness.”

“Right.”  Quinlan gloved up, noting that Muln had already done so.  Aayla was struggling to get the plastine over her hands.  “You know what, Padawan?  How about you just observe and not touch?”

Aayla was definitely relieved by that.  “Thank you, Master.”

“I just want you to get this done and over with instead of dithering,” the coroner said, and neatly elbowed Quinlan aside.  “I didn’t know Jedi were squeamish.”

“Hey!” Quinlan protested, but didn’t shove back.  The woman was starting to undress the body with swift efficiency.  “You know, in my defense, I don’t normally strip corpses.  I just rifle through their pockets and leave them for someone else to deal with.”

The coroner gave him a dry look.  Her eyes were the same iron grey as her hair.  “What kind of Jedi are you, anyway?”

“Criminal investigations,” Aayla piped up.  “We’re used to mess, just not…this sort of mess.”

“That’s a hell of a lot of scars,” Muln noted, when the body’s torso was revealed.

“At least three vibroblade scars.”  Quinlan reached out and removed the Sith’s belt when the coroner gave him a pointed glance.  Impressions of unpleasantness soaked through the gloves, but nothing overt.  “I think that one might be a lightsaber scar.”

Muln shook his head.  “Wrong texture.”

“How do you know?”

“Obi-Wan has several,” Muln said.  Quinlan frowned; he hadn’t known that.

Aayla made a dismayed noise and plastered her hands over her eyes when the Sith’s trousers came off.  “Warning would have been nice and _was that a piercing?_ ”

Muln was laughing.  “That’s kind of horrifying.”

“I’ve seen far more complex than that,” the coroner muttered.  “Well, if you wanted his clothes, then his boots, trousers, belt, and that sash are intact, but all those tunic layers are a mess.  I have someone who can repair them, but it’ll take time, and the seams are probably going to be visible.”

“Right,” Muln said.  “Gimme a sec.”  His eyes went distant; Quinlan could feel the impression of communication in the Force.

Muln jerked himself upright a moment later.  “You can _do_ that?” he blurted aloud.

“Do what?” Aayla asked.

“We’ll just take them as-is,” Muln said, shaking off his surprise.

“These are filthy.  I can at least clean them—” the coroner offered.

“Yeah, but supposedly that would negate the point.”  Quinlan motioned for Aayla to fetch a bag, one that he had picked up for its ability to mask unpleasant odors.  “What is he going to do, fix them with the Force?”

“Yep,” Muln said.

Quinlan turned and stared at him.  “What, really?”

Muln nodded.  “That’s what he said, and when Obi-Wan says he’s going to do something, it tends to happen.”

“He survived getting stabbed with a _lightsaber_ ,” Aayla said in a hushed voice.  “As far as I’m concerned, he can do anything.”

“Hey!” Quinlan scowled at her.  “Save the hero worship for your Master, huh?”

Aayla smiled at him in perfect innocence.  “I’ve watched you break too many things, Master.”

Garen’s eyes had unfocused again during the exchange, but then he stopped with the bond telepathy and looked at Aayla.  “Obi-Wan says that he can’t fly without a ship and he can’t sit up on his own right now without help, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Aayla blushed.  “Uhm—he’s welcome?”

The coroner had finished shoving clothing into the bag, and now she was regarding the body thoughtfully. “I get to do an autopsy, right?”

Quinlan shrugged.  “Let me call down one of the Councilors to witness it, first, but sure.  Knock yourself out.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Quarsh Panaka found his Queen in the Palace’s most private garden, the one reserved only for Her Royal Highness or her accompanying Handmaidens.  Those standing on the ground were sheltered by large, gnarled trees that had been allowed to grow for centuries.  Their limbs created an almost complete canopy that blocked out the bright light of Naboo’s sun.

Eirtaé stood with Amidala; Sabé gave him a jaunty wave from her perch on one of the high tree branches.  Her feet were idly kicking the air, and a blaster rifle rested across her legs.  Saché and Rabé were off seeing to their families, now that they were free of the camps.  The youngest Handmaiden, Yané, was due to arrive in an hour to be briefed on tomorrow’s situation.  To his displeasure—and great concern—no one yet knew of Fé’s whereabouts.

“Captain,” Amidala greeted him as he approached. 

“The Senator’s residence is officially monitored, inside and out,” Panaka reported.  “There was installation of full audio and visual surveillance in all of the rooms.”  He hadn’t liked such a complete invasion of the man’s privacy, but if his Queen was committed to this course of action, then Panaka was going to be damned thorough.

“Thank you, Captain,” Amidala said gravely.

“The system is brilliant, actually,” Panaka admitted.  “Padawan Skywalker assisted with the design so that the equipment would be undetectable to all but the most intensive of scans.”

The Queen’s brow drew together.  “But you faced a difficulty beyond that.”

“We did, yes,” Panaka replied, proud as he ever was of the Queen’s excellent intuition.  “The Senator’s personal residence proved very difficult to enter.  He had some interesting new security measures on his home that were not only installed without alerting anyone as to their existence, but they were extremely difficult to bypass without leaving proof of our egress behind.”  If it had not been for Skywalker and their other two Jedi assistants, Master Gallia and Master Windu, the plan would have been foiled then and there.

Eirtaé frowned.  “That would have been inconvenient, had a fire brigade ever been dispatched to his home.”

“Fatally inconvenient, M’Lady,” Panaka said.

“While such a system is not direct evidence, it certainly does not imply good things about Naboo’s Senator,” Amidala murmured.

“No, it doesn’t.”  Panaka pulled off his hat and tucked it under his arm.  “Invoking Naboo’s Planetary Security Act will be the only thing that saves my ass, and Your Highness’s reputation, if this plan blows up in our faces.”

Amidala shook her head, which caused her complicated headdress to emit faint chiming noises.  “We are not alone in this, Captain.  The Chancellor has also invoked the Republic’s rather extensive security acts against treason and terrorism.  If we reveal that a Senator of the Republic is responsible for the Trade Federation’s attack on our sovereignty, Palpatine will be in violation of both our laws _and_ those of the Republic.”

“And if we fail to produce the right sort of evidence that would sway a Republic court or Senate?” Panaka asked.

“We will still be aware of what he has done.”  Amidala’s smile was not kind.  “He is not just the Chommell Sector’s representative, but Naboo’s direct connection to the Senate.  I have the power to strip him of his title and call for new elections to replace him.”

Eirtaé gave her Queen a pleased look.  “And banish him from Naboo.”

“Indeed.”  Amidala huffed out a frustrated breath.  “The Chancellor was so amused, when we discussed such things today.  He does not have the power to end a simple blockade, but he can act on behalf of the entire Republic against suspected terrorism.  Where is the balance in that, Captain?”

“That, I could not say,” Panaka replied.  “There is a reason why I have kept my nose to the goings-on in our own sector of space.”  He hesitated, frowning, before deciding to speak his mind.  “Your Highness, I still don’t understand how Knight Kenobi is going to pull this off.  Senatorial entrapment is one thing, but I highly doubt that Palpatine is going to be committing seditious acts in his own living room.”

There was a flash of concern in his Queen’s dark eyes, but Panaka did not think it was for the same reason he had spoken.  “You will simply have to trust in our allies, Captain,” she said, “as I do.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan opened the bag and turned his face away, his eyes squeezed shut.  “Oh, blessed stars, that is foul.”  Aayla was happy to see such an energetic reaction; he looked even better this evening than he had earlier in the day.

“You said you wanted them untouched.”  Muln’s grin was merciless.

“Yes, I’m aware.  That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Obi-Wan muttered.  “Quinlan, please do not be an ass.  I know you stole the coroner’s supplies.”

Aayla gave her Master a reproving look.  “Master, you didn’t.”

Quinlan shrugged and pulled out the tiny container of liquefied mint.  He claimed it smelled sharp and pleasantly astringent; Aayla just got a sweet scent from the gel.  Either way, it kept her sinuses occupied with not inhaling nauseating hints from the dead Sith’s clothes.

Aayla waited until Quinlan gave the small jar to Master Obi-Wan, and then glared at him.  “When this is done, we will go buy our own tub of minty Keeps-the-Dead-Out, and you will give Coroner Savané back her property.”

“I just want to know if it’s actually marketed under that name,” Muln wondered.  “That’s kinda catchy.”

Quinlan held up his hands.  “I promise, Padawan, I will put back the item that I _borrowed._ ”

[Oh, slimy Hutt testicles, what _is_ that?] Rillian howled in what sounded like complete desperation.  She was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed.

“Padawan, you might want to leave the room for a bit,” Master Obi-Wan suggested.

[That is terrible!  You’re going to—I am going outside!] Rillian declared, and bolted.

“Hutts don’t have testicles,” Aayla said, bewildered.

“I believe Anakin is responsible for that one.”  Obi-Wan picked up the Sith’s first black tabard.  It was not severed, but sliced along the center, a gash about a meter long.  He studied the cloth, and after a moment looked relieved.  “Good, the damage isn’t that bad.  I can make this work.”

“I want to watch!” Aayla announced, shoving past her Master to stand next to Master Obi-Wan.  “Muln said you could just literally Force it back together.”

He lifted an eyebrow.  “That is not quite what I’m doing, but close enough.  You may watch, Padawan.”  If Master Obi-Wan noticed that Quinlan and Muln were also scooting closer while trying to look disinterested, he was ignoring them.

Master Obi-Wan held the cloth in his hands so that the severed ends were just touching.  “Watch,” he said in a gentle voice to Aayla.  “This cloth, these threads—they are used to binding together in the way they were made.  It is not actually that difficult to convince those threads to reach for each other, to again twine together and hold fast.”

Aayla smiled in absolute delight as the threads did just as he described, joining together along their original woven paths.  The action continued as the gash slowly disappeared.  By the time both halves had become solid, Aayla couldn’t see any of the original damage.

“That is _amazing_ ,” she whispered.

“And it is not as difficult as you might think,” Obi-Wan said, rolling up the repaired tabard into a ball and placing it to one side. He drew out the other from the bag, which was damaged in a similar way, but the cut was on a diagonal instead of a straight up and down, and had almost severed the cloth completely in half.

“Oh, dear.  Rillian is correct—it utterly reeks in here,” Master Qui-Gon said.

Aayla glanced up to find the Master standing in the doorway with Tachi, who was making a face and looking as if she desperately wished to pinch her nostrils shut.

“There’s minty goop stuff,” Aayla offered.  “It helps.”

“All hail the minty goop stuff,” Tachi said, claiming the container from Master Obi-Wan.

“What are you all doing in here?” Master Qui-Gon asked, curious.

“They’re watching the Kowakian monkey-lizard perform his amazing feats of reconstruction,” Master Obi-Wan said in a dry voice.  Aayla returned her attention to the cloth just in time to see the severed edges bite back together.

“You’re sure?”

Master Qui-Gon’s question didn’t make much sense until Obi-Wan answered him.  “Better today than trying to get it all done tomorrow.  I’d like to reserve tomorrow for preparation and panic.”

“A wise decision,” Master Qui-Gon said, but Aayla didn’t think he looked pleased.  If anything, he looked really unhappy.

Maybe Quinlan had noticed, too.  “So, how did you learn to do this?”

Master Obi-Wan put aside the second repaired tabard.  “I blew up every fragile thing in my home aside from my lightsaber crystals one day.  I had no means of replacing them or repairing them save the Force.  I was faced with the options of learning to do such repairs, or figuring out how to eat and drink out of my hands.”

“Whoops,” Muln said, chuckling.

“Oops, indeed.”  Master Qui-Gon shook his head.  “All of our tea mugs.  All of them.”

“When I break things, I do not fuck around.”  Master Obi-Wan looked very serious, but Aayla thought there was a smile hiding in his eyes.

“Would you teach me?” she asked, trying not to sound plaintive.  She loved her rough-and-tumble Master and their shenanigans, but this would be like weaving with the Force, and the idea was enthralling.

“If you like,” Master Obi-Wan replied, an actual smile on his face.  “When you can escape your Master’s clutches.”

Quinlan sighed in mock-resignation.  “That really won’t be a problem.  Don’t let Aayla’s innocent act fool you.  She’s my Padawan for a reason.”

Muln was watching Master Obi-Wan try to match up the proper ends for the overtunic’s repairs.  “Aside from smelling like the bastard, I don’t see how anyone—let alone Palpatine—is going to believe that you’re Maul.”

Master Obi-Wan didn’t quite frown—it was more a thoughtful expression, like a Jedi trying to hunt for elusive threads.  “Scent and smells are things that the Sith pay particular attention to, especially foul odors on another.  As to the rest?”  He shrugged and then winced, as if the simple motion had angered his still-healing wound.  “Everyone will find out soon enough.  Besides, if you don’t know, you can honestly say that you had no idea what I was going to do when Mace has a fit about it tomorrow.”

“I like this plan a lot more already,” Quinlan said.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Mace meditated after the evening meal, habit and preparation both.  A thought occurred to him then, one important enough that he needed to discuss it right away.

Abella and Qui-Gon met him at the door to Obi-Wan’s recovery room, unchanged still from the original converted household the day of the battle.  “Is he still awake?”

Abella gave Mace a frank stare.  “Yes, and drugged to his blasted non-existent gills so that he’ll sleep through the night.”

Mace nodded.  “Good.  There are questions I must ask, and that assures me a level of honesty I might not get otherwise.”

“Mace—” Qui-Gon began to protest, but Mace shook his head.

“I am not pushing for things beyond what Obi-Wan has already spoken of,” he said in assurance.  “You may be in there with us, if you wish.”

Qui-Gon hesitated before bowing his head in formal acknowledgement.  As Head of the Order, Mace had the right to ban anyone else from the room.  “Thank you.  I will stay, but remain unobtrusive, if you believe that will help.”

“It might.”  Mace stepped into the room and walked straight to Obi-Wan’s bedside.  Qui-Gon went to the window beyond the cot, leaning against the frame and pretending to study whatever was going on outside.  Abella lingered in the doorway, keeping an eye on the patient in her care.

“Obi-Wan.  How are you?” Mace asked, kneeling down next to the bed so that he wasn’t looming over the injured Knight.

Obi-Wan blinked at him a few times in the slow way of the drugged and exhausted.  “Too tired to panic.  It’s great.  You have questions?”

“And you have answers,” Mace agreed, amused.  Obi-Wan’s ability to filter information was blown almost wide open, and that filter worked both ways.  “It occurred to me that you told Qui-Gon outside of Coruscant space about Palpatine’s true identity, and he didn’t remember afterwards.  How is it that _we_ remember, now, when almost a full day has passed since you told us that man was a Sith?”

“Oh, that.  I pulled the threads,” Obi-Wan said, as casual as if he’d granted Mace a weather report.

Mace reminded himself that he was dealing with an injured, drugged man who was also reticent at the worst damned times.  “You did what, exactly?”

“Pulled the threads,” Obi-Wan repeated, frowning a bit.  “I—when I first removed the influence of the Coruscant Veil from my mind, from Qui’s mind—it hurt.”

“A lot,” Qui-Gon murmured under his breath.

“I was doing it the hard way, I realized.  Removing the sum of the Veil’s influence.”  Obi-Wan sighed.  “Just pulling the threads that connects one to the Veil is so much easier.”

“Ah.”  Mace treated Obi-Wan to a hint of sternness.  “And when did you do this?”

“Days ago?”  Obi-Wan seemed to be trying to add in his head before giving up.  “Before the battle.”

Mace rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.  “And you didn’t think to tell us that you were doing such a thing?”

Obi-Wan just looked baffled.  “It wasn’t an invasive thing.  It was just sort of…I was worrying about other things.”

“Fair enough,” Mace granted him.  If Obi-Wan had died, they would have had nothing…or perhaps other plans had been made.  This was not a fool he was speaking to, after all.  “This thread removal you speak of—will it last after we return to Coruscant, or will that Veil reattach itself?”

“I’m not sure.  That’s why I told Even Piell before we left about the Veil’s existence—that’s when I learned how to remove its influence by thread, not by forcibly yanking it off.”

“I see.”  Mace wanted to congratulate the man on his forethought just as much as he wanted to throttle him.  Reticent bastard.  “We will consider ways of reminding ourselves of the Veil’s continued existence for a Coruscant return, then,” Mace said, hoping that Piell would have discovered a method for dismantling the damned thing by the time they went home.

“Obi-Wan,” Mace said, just as Obi-Wan’s eyes were starting to drift closed.

“Mm?”

“If tomorrow is a failure, are there any other contingencies in place?”

Obi-Wan opened his eyes just long enough to stare at Mace.  “You mean legal contingencies.  Master Windu, if Palpatine doesn’t reveal himself, we’re going to have far more to worry about than the Order’s legal standing.”

“Why?” Mace asked.

There was a spark of fear in Obi-Wan’s eyes, visible and gone in an instant.  “Contingencies upon contingencies, Mace.  That is a man who created a plan to invade Naboo whereupon, _no matter the outcome_ , he gained from it.  A man who plans to gain no matter what is a man who also has contingencies in place for us.”

Mace didn’t know what to say to that, so he settled for nodding.  “Get some rest.”  _And I’m sorry_ , he thought.  He still had no idea what Obi-Wan planned to do to force Palpatine into revealing himself, but he knew it would be unpleasant, at best.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“This is a bad idea,” Qui-Gon whispered, watching as Obi-Wan managed to sit up in bed under his own power.  Their Padawans stood at his opposite sides, watching their other Master’s actions with wide, solemn eyes.

“It is,” Obi-Wan agreed.  “But no one could think of anything better, so it’s all we have.  I’m still willing to listen to alternatives.”

“Killing him outright is appealing,” Qui-Gon admitted.  “However, that defeats the purpose of everything we’re planning.”

[Killing him also appeals to _me_ greatly,] Rillian added in a low rumble.  She was fingering the place on her bandoleer where her lightsaber was tucked away, almost fully hidden from view.  [Politics complicate things way too much.]

Anakin grinned at her, but it was humor strained by his own fear of the day’s upcoming events.  “I knew there was a reason I liked you.  Practical Wookiee.  When this is over, we can make fun of politicians together.”

“Padawan.”  Obi-Wan shook his head, smiling, as Anakin ducked his head in a show of repentance.  “At least be certain that no one is around to hear you.”

 _Your speech is sliding around again,_ Qui-Gon sent.

Obi-Wan glanced up at him in surprise.  _I hadn’t noticed.  Balls,_ he muttered, which made Qui-Gon smile.

_It’s charming._

_Double-balls and fuck-all,_ Obi-Wan groused, before smiling.  There was love and warm affection lurking in his eyes, revealed by the sharp blue-green color that appeared when he was feeling his most expressive.  He stood up in slow, careful increments, and then buried himself in Qui-Gon’s arms.

 _Be careful._ Qui-Gon poured the depth of his love down the fledgling Lifebond.  It was now a stable creation, one that would not cause his death if the worst were to pass, but that was not allowed to happen.  _I love you._

 _And I love you, Qui-Gon Jinn._   Obi-Wan lifted his face; Qui-Gon accepted the invitation.  The kiss was gentle but still fierce and full of fire; Obi-Wan’s hands were resting on Qui-Gon’s chest, just over his heart.  _I will live, and so will you._

It took him a moment to realize the ritual significance of the gesture.  Qui-Gon swallowed when it felt like his heart tried to climb into his throat.  _Together as one, or not at all,_ he replied.  They weren’t the right words, but they had been literal until very recently.

Obi-Wan smiled at Qui-Gon in approval, then dropped to his knees in another slow, cautious gesture, holding out his arms.  Rillian and Anakin stepped forward, and Obi-Wan held them close.

“Take care of him, Padawans.  This will all be over soon.”

“We’ll be watching from the Palace,” Qui-Gon said.  He wanted to be closer.  He was so concerned that something was going to go wrong.  None of them could figure out if it was because things _would_ go badly, or if it was their own fears at play in an atmosphere already fraught with tension.

Obi-Wan used Rillian and Anakin’s assistance to stand again just before Quinlan knocked on the doorway to announce himself.  “I’ll be careful, Qui.  I promise.”

Qui-Gon nodded and escorted the Padawans from the room.  “I know.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

“I brought the stinky garb of doom,” Quinlan announced the moment Jinn and the younger Padawans were gone from the hallway, on their way to join the others in the Palace.

“Thanks,” Obi-Wan replied in a soft voice.  He was biting his lip, his eyes unfocused, but Quinlan didn’t think the man was trying to use foresight.  He suspected Obi-Wan was just trying to pull himself together so that he could do this job and get it over with.

Damn, did he know that feeling.

Obi-Wan undid the short line of buttons that made up the collar of the beige shirt he was wearing, and then stalled out.  “Fuck.  Quin, I can’t lift my arms over my head _and_ get this thing off.  Either get out a knife and remove it the easy way, or pull this off, would you?”

“You don’t have a hell of a lot of shirts lying around,” Quinlan replied.  “Arms up, dumbass.”  Obi-Wan snorted and obeyed, but Quinlan observed the clench of his jaw as he removed the shirt.  “Why me, Kenobi?  You’ve got a Lifemate and two Padawans who could help you put this crap on.”

Obi-Wan untied the loose medical-standard pants and let them slide off, revealing nothing but a pair of underwear underneath.  Quinlan was relieved by the lack of nudity; he’d had a bit of a crush on the man when they were both younger.  He didn’t really need that kind of complication, not when he was trying to figure out how to have a real relationship with Jude Rozess of the Temple Guard.

“Why you?”  Obi-Wan glanced at Quinlan, the whites of his eyes a hair too pronounced.  “Because I’m terrified out of my wits, Quin.  They’re having enough trouble dealing with this, and I didn’t want to make it worse.”

“Good point.”  Quinlan helped Obi-Wan slide on the black trousers, which were emanating the same amount of stench as if he’d just pulled them from the corpse.  The fit was close enough—Maul had been lean and small-framed, too. 

The undertunic layer was a simple black shirt borrowed from a Theed resident so that the fabric would lie properly in place; Maul’s original shirt was too ripe with actual decomposition to be used.  Quinlan placed the layer of a Naboo soldier’s body armor over the shirt and noticed the expression on Obi-Wan’s face.

“Not gonna work, is it?”

“No.  It puts too much pressure on the wound, front and back,” Obi-Wan said, pinched lines around his eyes.  “Damn.  That would have been a bit reassuring.”

Maul’s black overtunic and tabards were both made from a heavy fabric.  Quinlan bit his lip at the pained sound Obi-Wan let out as the weight settled over his shoulders.  It only got worse as he added the sash, and then the Sith’s belt over it, both of which had to be pulled snug.  All of it made Obi-Wan smell rank, like he’d gone rolling around with Darth Maul’s freshly killed body.

“Are you going to be able to do this?”

“I’m terrified of the idea of being in the same room as this man,” Obi-Wan said in blunt honesty.  “But yes, I’m going to be able to do it.  No choice.”

Obi-Wan sat down so Quinlan could shove socks and boots onto his feet.  The black boots were too short, and pinched Obi-Wan’s toes, but as Obi-Wan had just said—no choice.

When Obi-Wan stood up, Quinlan had to admit that if you could ignore the smell, the effect was striking.  The black garb made Obi-Wan’s pale skin and copper hair stand out in stark, beautifully emphasized contrast, and turned his eyes into luminous blue warmth.

“You should wear black more often,” Quinlan suggested, and was surprised by the shudder of revulsion that went through his friend.

“I really don’t care for black; it brings back bad memories.”

Quinlan mentally put that information away to stew over later.  “Then we’re just down to this.”  He settled Maul’s heavy cloak over Obi-Wan’s shoulders.  It was a design Quinlan wanted to copy, open and made for fighting in a way that Jedi robes simply weren’t.  Sure, Jedi were supposed to be peacekeepers, but Quinlan spent most of his peace-keeping time beating the absolute hell out of bad guys.  A standard Jedi cloak just got in the way.

“Why are you so afraid of being alone with Palpatine?” Quinlan asked.

Obi-Wan’s answer wasn’t reassuring.  “I have no idea.  I just—I am.  I’ll cope, and I’ll be fine, but I would quite honestly rather jump into a nest of rabid gundarks.”

Quinlan forced a smile onto his face.  “It’s the rabid part that always makes it worse.”

Obi-Wan lifted his hands and pulled the cloak’s hood up over his hair.  His face was at once lost to shadow, his features indeterminable.  Quinlan gave him a sharp nod and then performed one of the more formal bows he rarely bothered with. 

“May the Force be with you.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

With Anakin’s new security countermeasures in place, it was easy to slip into Palpatine’s residence, unnoticed even by the few Jedi that they’d dared to place close by.  Still a relative unknown on a Galactic level gave Garen the opportunity to be closest, playing at gardening.  Siri was pretending to be a nanny to several children up the street, with the true caretaker hidden by the shade of the tree, enjoying her temporary leisure. 

The others were spread farther away, or stationed in the Palace itself.  Obi-Wan wasn’t sure if it was foreknowledge or some lingering subconscious memory, but he was certain that any closer Jedi proximity would warn Palpatine that something was amiss.

This could _not_ fail.  Even if they failed to capture a Sith, Palpatine could not retain the political power he’d already achieved.  Valorum’s second term ended in two years, and that was plenty of time for Palpatine to convince the Senate to vote him in as replacement Chancellor.

There were no lights powered on in the residence, and shadows filled the building in a way that made him uneasy.  It was the middle of the day, but still easy to hide in the darkened main living area.  This was a place used to secrecy and Darkness.

Obi-Wan breathed out unease, pain, concerns, worry.  He wrapped himself in shadow, silence, and the Force, letting all three aspects cloak his form and hide his presence.

 _This is a very bad idea,_ Obi-Wan thought, not for the first time in the last hour.  The Lifebond was stable; if things went foul, Qui-Gon wouldn’t die, but by all the gods and the Force itself, he hadn’t waited this long for his life’s greatest wish just to die _here_.  Fuck that.

He could sense the moment Palpatine arrived on the planet.  He knew it when Palpatine voiced his wishes to refresh in his home before attending to the matters of dead potential Sith.

_It’s time._

Obi-Wan opened himself to the Force, whispering of the thing he wished it to do for him even as he visualized it.  The energy swirled around him, as if thinking, before settling onto his skin from head to toe.  Obi-Wan swallowed and finished pushing the energy into the proper alignment, letting it complete the image he held in his mind.

When Obi-Wan removed the black glove that covered his hand, his skin reflected the same black and red patterns that adorned Darth Maul.  He pulled up his sleeve to find that yes, the resemblance was perfect.

It was amazing what one could learn during an intergalactic war.

 

*          *          *          *

 

The small room near the back of the Palace, close to the falls, had been filled with dust and molding furniture before the blockade.  During the Battle of Theed it had been emptied and turned into a staging point for invading the Palace.  Now it served as an observation room, far from prying eyes and ears.

Anakin and Rillian preceded Qui-Gon into the room, where they received a silent welcome from Micah.  He was leaning against his staff, but it was not exhaustion; this was preparation, resting his body in case he needed what strength he had to fight.

Valorum and Padmé were there to witness the day’s events as well, as representatives of both the Republic and the Naboo themselves.  Valorum paced the room, his robes of office streaming out behind him.  Padmé was eying the man like she envied his ability to pace, but the room allowed space for only one to express themselves that way.  She sat cross-legged instead on one of the room’s two chairs.  The other was placed directly in front of the bank of vidscreens on the wall, and that was where Anakin sat, sober-faced, with age showing in his eyes that didn’t belong.

Padmé’s wardrobe had finally diverged from the rest of the Handmaidens.  She wore a dark red shirt over black pants and boots, a blaster was strapped to her waist, and Qui-Gon caught a glimpse of what he was sure was a thin knife tucked into her long braid of hair.  He had no doubt that she was again ready for war, if war was called for.

The Handmaidens were all with Sabé as she performed her flawless impersonation of the Queen, including yesterday’s missing Fé, who had, fortunately, just been in a camp far from Theed.  Mace and Yoda were with them, official representatives of the Jedi Order for welcoming the Senatorial investigation committee.  The rest of the Jedi had spread themselves throughout Theed, accompanied by plain-clothed members of the Naboo Royal Guard.  To all appearances, they were participating in reconstruction efforts and clean-up, too busy to greet the delegation from Coruscant.

Anakin temporarily switched each individual viewscreen to the larger, central one, but found no trace of Obi-Wan anywhere in the rooms.  Qui-Gon knew he was there, but only because of the Lifebond’s existence.  In the Force, Obi-Wan’s presence was gone, just as it had been in the Council Chamber days before. 

Micah had been right; Obi-Wan didn’t block himself from the Force, but hid within it.  The gentle flow of energy that Qui-Gon could sense was of great comfort to him—not as good as standing with his mate, but better than nothing at all.

When Qui-Gon glanced at Valorum again, the man was staring at the main viewscreen with a grim smile on his face.  “At the very least, I can see that Obi-Wan intends to present our good Senator with a surprise.”

“Is Palpatine approaching?” Qui-Gon asked, putting his arm around Rillian when she stepped in close to his side.  There was something in the air, something that felt wrong to his senses, but Qui-Gon couldn’t pinpoint it—and didn’t dare try.

Anakin turned his head to look at them.  “Yes,” he said, fear shining in his eyes.  “He is.”

There were varying levels of flinching when Padmé’s commlink beeped for attention.  Valorum turned to her, waiting as Padmé listened to the device settled over her left ear.

Padmé gave them a smile that held only a hint of nervousness.  “Captain Panaka informs me that Palpatine is, indeed, on the way to his residence.  The committee was in agreement that after their journey, resting should be their first order of business.”

“Of course it was,” Valorum muttered, his brow furrowed in disparagement.  “They only rested for the entire hyperspace journey.  What is one more evening in the grand scheme of things?”  He shook his head, still scowling, when Micah stifled a laugh.  “You wouldn’t think it was funny if you knew that their excess was coming out of _your_ budget.”

Time slowed down to a crawl as they waited for the Senator to enter his home.  In truth, it couldn’t have taken longer than five minutes before Palpatine appeared on-screen in the first monitor for the entryway, walking through into the main hall of his home.  The senator’s residence was a subdued, simple environment, despite the fact that as representative of the Chommell Sector, he was entitled to a much more lavish dwelling.

Palpatine was trailed by two green-cloaked aides, their heads bowed so that their features were difficult to make out in the dim light.  That was also strange; a Republic Senator’s entourage tended towards larger, more ostentatious groupings.

Qui-Gon studied the man’s appearance as Anakin swapped the view of Palpatine to the large, central screen.  Palpatine looked exactly the same as the last time Qui-Gon had seen him on the Coruscant landing platform:  Human male in his fifties, kind blue eyes with only a hint of the wateriness that sometimes came with age, and reddish-blond hair that was turning white at the temples, ostensibly from the stress of a political lifestyle.  The expression on his face was just as concerned, just as careworn.  To think that Senator Palpatine of Naboo and Darth Sidious could be the same person seemed like a ludicrous notion, but...

Anakin turned on the sound as Palpatine paused in the central living area of his home.  The timing was bone-chilling in its perfection; Palpatine’s kind expression fell away like a mask.  The warmth left his eyes; his lips thinned as he smiled and lifted his head, turning his head in several directions as if scenting the air.

“Leave us,” Palpatine snapped at his green-cloaked aides.  “You will not return unless I call for you.”  The two bowed without once lifting their eyes from the floor, and disappeared into the recesses of Palpatine’s home.

His voice was richer, deeper—sharper, deadly.  Qui-Gon glanced at Valorum, whose mouth was open in shock even as his expression darkened in anger.  Padmé was staring at the screen with her lips pressed together, her hand on her blaster, but the echo of sharp betrayal was visible in her eyes.  Anakin merely watched the screen, as if he’d expected nothing less.

Palpatine’s chuckle was a disturbing sound that fit well with the dark humor on his face.  “I thought I’d sensed your death, Lord Maul.”

There was no visible movement that Qui-Gon could see, but the sensitive recording equipment picked up on the whisper of moving fabric.  “You were meant to, Senator,” a voice hissed, turning Palpatine’s title into mockery.

All of the fine hairs on Qui-Gon’s neck stood at attention.  That was Maul in perfect replica, danger and silk twined together.

“You betrayed me,” Not-Maul continued, the sneer audible in his voice.  “It was your foolish Hand’s death that you sensed, one I used to cover my own escape from the Jedi.”

“Oh, come now.”  Palpatine spread his arms in a magnanimous gesture.  “I had to ensure that our plan would succeed, my friend.”  His smile was quickly replaced by a snarl.  “It did, and yet, it also _did not_.  I am…most displeased.”

Another whisper of cloth was Qui-Gon’s only warning before a figure stepped out of the shadows that Palpatine faced, dressed in the clothes removed from Maul’s dead body.  He lifted glove-clad hands and pushed back the hood of his cloak.

Qui-Gon stifled a gasp with severe effort, though others were less successful in hiding their shock.  Darth Maul stood where Qui-Gon knew Obi-Wan to be.  His corrupted yellow eyes, tinged blood red, were filled with anger. 

“It was _your_ Hand that tried to kill me, wishing to take my place and claim credit for the Jedi he kept me from destroying.  He is now ash for his efforts, Lord Sidious.”

 _Obi-Wan was right not to tell us,_ Qui-Gon thought, trying to quash his horror.  _I wouldn’t have believed him._   Then, almost as an afterthought:  _Spastic fits, hell.  Mace is going to have a heart attack._   The deception Obi-Wan had created was perfect, and the very reason that the skill of Force Illusion was blacklisted by the Jedi Order.  Some were born with a natural inclination for it, but it was never taught—the potential for misuse was considered too great.

“Forcing the Queen of Naboo to sign the treaty was the best possible outcome to salvage anything from what has become a catastrophe!” Palpatine ground out.  The watery blue was gone from his gaze, replaced by reptilian yellow. 

“That’s the Naboo deception confirmed,” Padmé murmured.  “I believed Obi-Wan, truly, but this is…gods.”

“You failed to ensure that the Neimoidians would succeed, and you failed to kill Kenobi, both here _and_ with your clumsy attempt over Roinall VI!”

Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan’s jolt of surprise within the Lifebond.  Qui-Gon was just as confused.  Kill him?  _Why?_

“Tell me why I should not kill you, instead?” Palpatine asked.  His voice was almost pleasant-sounding again, but his rage was a visible thing as sparks of electricity appeared around his clenched fists.  Rillian gasped at the sight; Micah muttered something about Force Lightning.  “And why, my dear Apprentice, can I not sense your presence in this room?”

Not-Maul smiled, his expression tinged with bitterness.  “You have an odd fascination with certain Jedi, _Master._   You place much importance on one insignificant Knight.”

“Your arrogance in that matter betrays your lack of knowledge,” Palpatine returned.

“Perhaps.”  Not-Maul dipped his head in acknowledgement.  “Or, perhaps you cannot sense me because I have learned much since we last spoke.  Do you wish to find out how much?”  His hand touched the lightstaff, secured in place on Maul’s belt.  “Are you certain of your victory?”

Palpatine’s hands slowly relaxed, the sparks vanishing as he regarded Not-Maul with a thoughtful air.  “You surprise me.  You have, indeed, learned more than I once thought possible.”  He half-turned to face a window that allowed in only a sliver of light, enough to illuminate the cruel lines of his face and the bloodshot yellow shine of his eyes.  “My primary goal was to take control of the Republic, the easiest path to victory.  Amidala is stronger than I previously knew, and would not call for the Vote of No Confidence, even when I pushed her.”

“He did _what?_ ” Padmé hissed in sudden anger.

“Force suggestion,” Micah told her in a low voice.  “You are not weak-minded, Your Highness.”

“I might have to call for the Vote myself,” Palpatine mused, “though it would make it more difficult to ensure my election in Valorum’s place.  If we wish to restore the glory of the Sith Empire, using the Republic as its basis is still the strongest plan.  If not…there are other ways.  We will have to contemplate the matter, Lord Maul.  The revenge of the Sith will not be denied.”

Not-Maul tilted his head, reaching up to tap the black-painted tiny commlink hidden behind his ear.  “Is that enough?” Obi-Wan asked, his voice dropping all hints of Maul.

Qui-Gon almost wished he hadn’t done that so quickly.  Hearing Obi-Wan’s voice emerge from what looked to be Darth Maul’s mouth was disturbing.

Valorum leaned over the speaker that Anakin activated on his behalf.  “That is _more_ than enough,” he said in a low, angry growl.  “Those are several laws broken, with treason included!”

Palpatine looked shocked, then angry, as he turned around to face Maul.  Obi-Wan chose that moment to drop the illusion, regarding Palpatine with the tight-lipped, gray-eyed, flat expression he wore when he was ready for the worst sort of battle.

To Qui-Gon’s intense disquiet, Palpatine gave Obi-Wan a pleased, welcoming smile.  “General Kenobi.  How wonderful it is to see you again.”

Obi-Wan’s expression twisted into angry bafflement, but they heard nothing more.  Palpatine—Sidious—lifted his hand and made a simple gesture.

With a squeal of tortured electronics, all of the viewscreens went black.

           

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan flinched away from the shower of sparks that came from equipment hidden in the closest wall, desperately hoping that Anakin managed to salvage all of the data from this confrontation.  To go through that nightmare for nothing—he honestly couldn’t stomach the idea.

In the meantime, he had far larger problems to contend with.  “The pleasure is all yours, believe me.”  Obi-Wan felt cold dread gathering in his thoughts.  Palpatine had called him General Kenobi.  Nobody knew of that, not even—

The third, Obi-Wan thought, with a numb sort of horror.  Palpatine was the third aspect of the Prophecy of the Chosen One.

“You know,” Obi-Wan whispered.  “You know all of it.”

Palpatine offered him another genial smile.  “I do.  I studied yours and Anakin’s actions for years, and ultimately became convinced that the two of you did not remember, not with the same clarity that I did—I was foolish to do so, especially in light of the Prophecy.  I had forgotten your brilliance at subtlety, General.”

“I hadn’t wished to—I stayed quiet for this very reason, actually,” Obi-Wan said.  He lost nothing by admitting it, but he didn’t gain anything, either.

“Ah, well.  How is young Skywalker?”

“Out of your reach,” Obi-Wan snapped in response, angered by the thought of Sidious anywhere near his Padawan.  “You will _never_ _again_ lay a hand upon him.”

Palpatine’s lack of concern was not reassuring.  “It matters not.  Skywalker betrayed me, and I have no use for him any longer.  You, however…”  Palpatine’s eyes narrowed.  “You did kill my dear Maul, then.  What a pity—he did so much better in his training in this iteration of himself.  My first Maul was not the crafty sort, but he learned quite a bit during the war, and I was willing to credit that he had, perhaps, learned enough to have truly done as you said.”

“Actually, Maul’s death was sort of a cooperative effort,” Obi-Wan replied, his mouth bone dry.  Fear was a flutter of broken wings in his chest.  This was a depth of danger realized too late.  “The Hand’s addition was a nice touch.”

 _I am the only one who will truly know what to expect from him_.  Obi-Wan’s arrogance would be his undoing, and it was his own damned fault.

Palpatine nodded.  “I suppose you killed him, as well?”

Obi-Wan realized he was smiling as fear blended with defiance.  Foolish fate or not, he refused to die on a whisper of regret.  “No.  That one you can lay at Master Jinn’s feet.  He truly is ash, though; we weren’t aware that the melting pit was functional.”

His hands itched to take out his lightsaber, tucked into the sash at his back and hidden from sight.  Maul’s weapon was too large, too unwieldy for someone with his injury to use.  If he fought, this would be a battle dependent upon mastery of the Force.

What concerned Obi-Wan was Palpatine’s presence.  With all of his masks gone, the Sith’s abilities were different from what Yoda had once told him, more forceful.  The shadows in the room seemed to be multiplying as Sidious’s aura of Darkness spread out, unrestrained.  Everything it touched was coated with corruption and blight; the very air was chilled by it.

For a minute, all they did was stare at each other, Sith and Jedi, separated by only a few steps between them.  There was no sound but the inhalation and exhalation of air, accompanied by the faint hum of the home’s environmental system.  Obi-Wan’s breath sounded harsh in his ears, pain lending him weakness he could not afford—especially when he was still trying to figure out how to survive this.

“Rumor that reached Coruscant spoke of you being gravely wounded.”  Palpatine’s fingers flickered in the air.

Obi-Wan gasped when sharp fingers prodded his stomach, striking the exact spot where the Hand’s lightsaber had pierced him.  Fuck, fuck; that hurt so much it was killing his ability to _think._

“Indeed you were.”  Palpatine seemed to be measuring him.  “My Hand did very well, then.”

Obi-Wan clenched his jaw and tightened his shields.  The only way Palpatine could have known that was if he’d slipped.  No.  Not happening.

“If only he were alive to be rewarded.”  When Palpatine came closer, all of his Senate niceties were gone, and Darth Sidious stood in his place. 

Obi-Wan resisted the urge to step back in response.  His head was screaming at him to run, but he could not.  Even if Sidious wasn’t blocking his path, he was physically incapable.  The lightsaber wound burned and throbbed, pain almost as sharp as the initial injury.

“It’s a pity—he would have become one of my most loyal, trusted Hands, and will be difficult to replace.  My next Apprentice, however…”

Palpatine’s smile was dark pleasure.  “How nice it was of you to present yourself to me once more, Darth Venge.”

Obi-Wan forgot about injuries, running, and entrapment.  When he met Sidious’s gaze, the fear he’d been battling dissolved into outright terror.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Shit!”  Micah shoved his commlink back into his belt.  “I can’t raise anyone—there’s a jammer hitting all frequencies.”

“YODA!” Qui-Gon shouted out loud and in his mind, a verbal cry that went straight to the old troll.  He could all but feel Yoda’s ears perk up in attention as he caught the details of the events Qui-Gon had just witnessed.

Yoda’s call echoed in Qui-Gon’s head:  _To the Senator’s home you must all go!  Needed, you are!_   That was followed by more echoes as the Jedi in Theed confirmed they had heard, that they were obeying Yoda’s instructions.

Padmé bolted for the door and opened it, almost running into Panaka.  “Your Highness, the commlinks—”

“I know!” Padmé shouted back.  “The only teams who know that there is trouble are with the Jedi.  Get your people and find Palpatine, Captain!  Do whatever you have to, just _stop him_.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Panaka replied, his eyes going hard as he shoved his hat back onto his head and ran down the hall.

“Master Qui-Gon, I can’t reach him,” Anakin said in a shocked whisper, his eyes wide and panicked.  “The training bond is there but I can’t reach him!”

Qui-Gon took a shocked breath and then delved into the new link, following the multi-stranded path of the Lifebond back to Obi-Wan.  He all but slammed into a solid wall of darkness, a block that he could not circumvent.

 _Obi-Wan!_ Qui-Gon yelled.

Silence.

 

*          *          *          *

 

His heart was hammering in his chest, a fearful combination of recognition and denial.  “That name is _not_ mine.”

Sidious took another step forward.  This time, Obi-Wan did retreat, wanting the Sith to stay far, far away from him.

“It is the name that I gave to you, my vengeful Jedi General.”

Obi-Wan shook his head.  He’d been a fool, a damned fool— _Damned old fool, what have you gotten me into now?_   “No.  No, you didn’t.”

Sidious paused, his expression thoughtful and cunning.  “Could it be…that you truly do not remember?  How amusing.”

Mental claws raked at his shields.  Obi-Wan screamed and shoved the claws away, sweat breaking out on his skin as he reeled from the unexpected mental assault. 

 _Force, that hurt,_ he thought wildly, closer to panic than he’d been in many years. _That was worse than when…when…_

Worse than _what?_

Palpatine clucked his tongue in blatant pity.  “They thought to bury the knowledge I gave you, didn’t they?  That meddling, traitorous troll…and Master Windu?  I had thought him dead well before that time.”

Obi-Wan unconsciously put his left hand to his temple.  The block.  Palpatine was speaking of the block.

He shuddered as words crossed his mind:  _You’re old before your time._   Bail.  Bail Organa on Alderaan, looking at him, anger and pity and despair and frustration and above all of that, forgiveness and love.

There was more of Bail’s angry frustration, spoken of and forgotten in that span of time that lay too close to the block.  _The next time you decide to run off and try to kill yourself a Sith Lord, Obi-Wan…do yourself a favor.  Don’t._

Had he?  Had he done such a foolish thing?

 _I have to do_ something, _Bail!_  Knives.  Packing. _I can’t just let Palpatine destroy everything we hold dear._

_He’ll kill you.  Even if you manage to get past the stormtroopers and his Imperial Guard, Palpatine will destroy you.  Even Master Yoda stood no chance against him!_

_I know that.  I know who he is, what he is, what he can do._

“No,” Obi-Wan said, hearing the bitterness in his voice.  He’d not thought of that part of his life in so very long, and…and he’d been a fool thrice over.  “You’re right.  I don’t remember.  Frankly, I find I prefer it that way, since it involves you.”

Sidious considered his words in silence.  Then, faster than Obi-Wan expected, the Sith moved.  Obi-Wan found himself pinned against the wall, Palpatine holding him in place with his hands and with Force-created iron bands that seeped into his skin like acid.

“Let go!” Obi-Wan growled, pushing back with all of his considerable strength.  He came close to succeeding, feeling a moment’s freedom.

Then his body betrayed him.  Dark tendrils tore into the lightsaber wound, rending and destroying the healing that had been done.  Obi-Wan screamed in blind agony, slamming his head back against the wall in a desperate effort to get away from what could not be escaped.

Sidious leaned in close, the heat of his body warming Obi-Wan’s side even as the putrid essence of his breath polluted the air.  “Life is so much more interesting than that, old friend,” Sidious gently whispered into Obi-Wan’s ear.

With that, the Sith ripped into Obi-Wan’s mind.

Obi-Wan had some of the best mental shielding in the Order, layers and complicated puzzles that even Yoda could scarcely fathom—and still his shields crumbled under Sidious’s onslaught.  They were nothing compared to the corrosive power that swamped him.

That didn’t mean he gave up.  Far from it.

Obi-Wan fought back with all of his strength and stubborn will, his defiance like a shining light against the Darkness that dipped into his thoughts.  There were so many threats to fight; no sooner had he burned one away when three more would appear in its place.

He gritted his teeth and worked at putting his shielding back into jagged pieces, new walls that those tendrils couldn’t puzzle their way through.  The last damned thing he wanted was Sidious in his head.

Then there was more sharp, unyielding pain in his belly, and he was already so fucking tired—

Darkness took advantage, rushing forward to wrap black threads around the block.  They covered the old barrier, burying it in corrupt energy that Obi-Wan didn’t know how to undo.

The block shattered, memories rushing forward to drown him.  Obi-Wan slumped, uncaring, into Palpatine’s waiting arms.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Garen ditched the speeder he’d borrowed and sprinted up the steps of Palpatine’s residence.  He didn’t bother with opening the door—he bulldozed his way through it with the Force, giving anyone who followed an easy way inside.  His inability to develop fine control sometimes worked in everyone’s favor.

Palpatine’s green-robed aides appeared in the hallway to block Garen’s path, staring at him with blank eyes.  The Force pikes in their hands were held like they knew how to use them.

Garen ignited his lightsaber, grim-faced, but then a blur of Force-enhanced speed became Siri, standing at his side.  “They’re mine!” she yelled, driving her salmon-colored lightsaber blade through the first pike.  “Find Obi-Wan!”

“All yours!” Garen yelled agreement as he ducked under the second pike when it was swung in his direction.  He rushed past the threat as Siri captured all of their blank-eyed attention.

 _Where the hell is everyone else?_ Garen wondered in shocked anger.  He and Siri hadn’t been closest—that had been Vos and Master Gallia!

Garen skidded to a stop in the main living area, his heart giving a great leaping thud in his chest.  Palpatine was sitting on the floor, cradling Obi-Wan in his arms in a manner that looked gentle and kind if you ignored the gleeful snarl on the Sith’s face.  Blood dripped from Obi-Wan’s nose, his eyes were screwed shut, and his hands tore at nothing.

Garen was not the greatest Jedi when it came to the esoteric uses of the Force, but he damned well knew a mental attack when he saw it.  “Hey, you!  Yes, you, you ugly Sith bastard!” he continued, when Sidious looked up at him with blood-tinged amber eyes.  Garen raised his lightsaber, more than ready to duel a fucking Sith.  “Leave my friend alone!”

Palpatine sneered at him, a smile curling his thin lips.  “Fool,” he whispered, and lifted his hand.

Arcs of purple lightning jumped from the Sith’s fingertips, lancing across the room to strike Garen’s chest before he had the chance to realize what was happening.  His lightsaber dropped from his hand; his jaw clenched so tightly shut he couldn’t even scream.  He fell under the onslaught and slumped onto the floor, gasping for breath as the attack ended.

 _So that’s what it feels like to be electrocuted,_ Garen thought, so dazed he wasn’t sure he remembered how to sit up.  _I don’t ever want to do that again._

 “Palpatine!” a female voice roared, fierce as a lioness.  There was a flash of dark red lightsaber as Master Gallia flew past Garen, followed by Siri, Vos, Master Windu, and a large contingent of the plain-clothed Naboo Royal Guard.

 _You are so late,_ Garen complained, just as Master Windu spoke.  “You’re under arrest, Senator, by command of the Supreme Chancellor, for treason against the Republic,” he intoned, and then ignited his new bright-violet lightsaber.  “And if you don’t put my friend down, being arrested is going to be the _least_ of your worries.”

Palpatine glanced down at Obi-Wan, whose hands had fallen to the ground, face slack in unconsciousness.  “There will be another time, Venge,” the Sith whispered, and then placed Obi-Wan on the ground with more care than Garen expected—and that just made it creepier.

When Palpatine stood up, the air seemed to flex and darken around him.  “No one will be arrested today, Jedi!”  Palpatine’s voice boomed like it was coming from everywhere, amplified and assaulting Garen’s ears.  Then there was a blinding flash as the space between Sith and Jedi exploded in a wave of fire and crackling lightning.

Garen blinked away the spots of light destroying his vision.  _What an asshole_ , he thought.  Jedi versus Sith was terrible; no wonder he’d decided to go the Knight-Pilot route instead of trying to be a Warrior-Diplomat.  Obi-Wan’s job _sucked._

“I’m going after him!” Garen heard Master Windu yell, followed by the boot steps of many feet.  Garen tried to get up and follow before hands the color of his favorite creamed caff stopped him.

He looked up into Master Gallia’s worried blue eyes.  “Master Adi,” he whispered, his voice cracking.  His head was spinning, trying to figure out why he was upright.  “I’ll be fine.  Staying with Obi-Wan.  Go catch that son of a bitch!”

Master Gallia nodded.  “Yes, definitely stay,” she ordered, and then disappeared in a burst of speed.  A flash of blonde hair and cream tunics meant that Siri followed her Master.  The Naboo couldn’t speed-chase, but they were following the Jedi with grim, dogged determination.

Vos stayed just long enough to look down at Garen.  “You sure you’re good on your own?”

Garen nodded.  “Yeah.  Wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t.  Go do your job, asshole.”

Vos offered him a hunter’s toothy grin and disappeared.

Garen stumbled his way over to Obi-Wan, falling onto his ass when he tried to sit next to his friend.  “Shit,” he muttered, and pulled Obi-Wan close.

Obi-Wan immediately tried to fight him off, rasping whispers of words and clawing hands.  “Hey!” Garen yelled, his voice crackling again.  “It’s me, you moron!”  He tried not to whimper when one of Obi-Wan’s flailing hands struck his nose.  It didn’t break, but dammit, Obi-Wan hit hard!

Obi-Wan froze mid-motion, which meant his hand was resting against Garen’s face.  He stared up at Garen, his eyes shifting from green to blue to a pale, reptilian yellow that didn’t belong on someone who was full human.  Garen felt his stomach twist itself into a knot as he realized who he’d just seen bearing similarly colored eyes.  His throat went tight as words dried up in his throat.

Obi-Wan’s expression wasn’t fierce or vicious, though.  He just looked like someone had run him over with a speeder, especially with the blood smearing his face.  “Garen?” he whispered.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Garen reassured him, patting the hand that was still resting against his face.  Obi-Wan’s fingers were ice-cold, possibly with shock.  “The others went after that ugly Sith.”  Garen swallowed and pulled out a grease rag, folding it until he had a clean spot he could use to try and get some of the blood off of his friend’s face.  At least the bleeding had stopped when the others chased off the damned Sith. 

“Obi-Wan, what the hell did he do to you?” Garen finally asked.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth in rapid denial.  Either he didn’t know, or he _really_ didn’t want to discuss it.

 _I knew this was a bad idea,_ Garen thought, and hoped that Master Qui-Gon was moving his ass to get here.  When he pulled out his commlink, most of the channels were still jammed, but he sent a message to Terza’s comm anyway:  “I think you’d better get down here—and if you see Jinn on the way, grab him, too.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

They were still at least a klik out from the Senator’s residence in Theed before Micah decided that courtesy was bullshit.  “Go,” he ordered Qui-Gon, between shallow gasps for breath as he stumbled along via brace and staff.  “I’ll follow with Rillian.”

Qui-Gon gave Micah a look that was both guilt and relief before glancing at his Padawan.

[Teach me how to run faster some other time,] Rillian said, smiling her understanding.  [Go, now!]

Qui-Gon was gone in the next moment, a blur that Micah’s eyes could barely track.  He was still trying to catch his breath, almost on the verge of wheezing.  The hell with this—when he got back to the Temple, Micah was going to make sure he could run a full kilometer without wanting to vomit and pass out.  He’d stubbornly insisted he was fine, but the Naboo situation had proven he was desperately out of shape.

“Wait—where’s Anakin?” Micah asked, looking around as he realized the boy was missing from their quartet.  So was Padmé, for that matter.  Dammit!

Rillian shook her head.  [I don’t think I’ve seen him since we left the Palace.]

 _What a time for Padawan Skywalker to decide to go independent_ , Micah thought, on the verge of growling.  Whatever he and the Queen were up to, it probably wasn’t good—or _safe_.

Micah’s commlink beeped for his attention, surprising him.  Rillian stared at him as he noted the priority signal attached to the code.  He cursed and flicked the device on.  “Tahl?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he heard her reply.  The signal was strong, but full of the electronic static and warping that denoted hyperspace communications.  That was expensive, which meant desperate.  “I’m on my way to Naboo.  I’ve got news that you have to hear—”

“Tahl,” Micah interrupted her, trying to talk to his wife while mentally searching for Anakin at the same time.  “We’re a bit busy right now, love—”

“Micah, listen to me!” Tahl all but shouted at him.  “The Prophecy of the Chosen One isn’t a Jedi prophecy at all!”

Realization struck him like a fist to the chest.  Micah met Rillian’s distressed hazel eyes, and knew that she’d come to the same conclusion.  Gods.  Gods, they’d sent Obi-Wan into the worst sort of trouble, and all Micah could do was hope that he’d survive it.

“Tahl,” Micah began, swallowing down sudden bile.  “I know who the Third is.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Anakin was running so fast, he was barely aware of his feet touching the ground.  Padmé had tried to keep up, but she didn’t have that kind of talent, and he was kliks ahead of her now.

He could sense other Jedi, tracking the Dark presence that was tainting everything around it.  He gritted his teeth and put on another burst of speed, one that made his lungs hurt and his heart feel funny in his chest.

Despite everything they had done, Anakin knew that Palpatine was going to escape.  He knew it as well as he knew his own name…and his other one.

Anakin rounded a corner, brushing past a confused group of Naboo citizens before leaping onto a rooftop.  Only when he reached the ledge, with no other place to go, did he stop.

On top of the building across from him was a waiting shuttle, its boarding ramp extended.  There was a blur of blue robes as Palpatine leaped onto the roof, heading directly for the shuttle.

Master Mace was still about a half-klik distant; Master Adi was close on his heels.  Both Jedi had their lightsabers out, wine and violet cutting through the wind as they ran—but they weren’t going to make it, and they knew it, too.

For just a second, time doubled on him, memories trying to stack on top of each other where they didn’t belong.  Anakin shook his head to clear it and then took a deep breath.  With only two steps for a running start, he leapt, gliding across the vast space between buildings until his feet landed on gravel that crunched under his boots.

Panting, Anakin looked up to see Palpatine at the top of the shuttle’s boarding ramp, his hand already reaching for the controls that would shut the door.

 _Too late,_ Anakin thought, wanting to weep in frustration.  Instead, he screamed, “PALPATINE!”

The Sith Lord whirled around to stare at him.  Palpatine’s face was twisted with thwarted rage as their eyes met.

Anakin felt calm certainty steal over him.  He raised his lightsaber and ignited the pale blue blade.  He knew—he’d _known_ —that Sidious had no power over him.  Not anymore.

“Skywalker,” Palpatine mouthed, the sound lost to rushing wind and the shuttle’s engines.

Anakin grinned and waved his lightsaber in a mocking salute.  “The next time we meet, I’m going to kill you!  Just like I did before!  Think about that, you fucking bastard!”

Palpatine didn’t respond.  He only sealed the shuttle, which immediately launched itself into the sky.  Anakin lowered his blade and watched the craft grow smaller and smaller as it left the atmosphere.

Master Mace landed on the roof beside him, followed quickly by Master Adi just as another ship went screaming by.  Anakin saw a flash of blonde hair—Siri, piloting a Naboo Starfighter.  The little ships were great, but Anakin could calculate flight and speed times in his head faster than an astromech on nothing but instinct.  She wasn’t going to catch up to that shuttle.

“Dammit,” Master Mace said under his breath, coming to the same conclusion.  “We lost him.”

Anakin disengaged his lightsaber before looking up at the man instructing him in _vaapad_.  “Not for long, Master Windu.  We’ll find him—but to be honest, he’ll probably find us, first.”

Master Mace looked down at him, his eyes narrowed, and then his expression shifted into one of quiet mourning.  Anakin bit his lip and looked away.  He couldn’t—he wasn’t ready for that, not yet.

When Obi-Wan was seventeen, still only about six months into his Knighting, he’d talked with Anakin about the burden of memory, of how he didn’t want that for Anakin—at least not yet.  It was hard enough at sixteen; Anakin hadn’t deserved it at six.

As far as Anakin was concerned, he didn’t deserve it at nine, either.

Mace was kind enough to remain silent, but he did rest his hand on Anakin’s shoulder in wordless comfort.  Anakin’s mouth trembled before he covered his face with one hand. 

“Take me back to my Master, please,” he whispered, feeling the moment that Sidious's dark presence left the system.  “I need to know if he’s all right.”

“Siri lost him, and so did Quinlan and Aayla,” Master Adi reported.  “There was another ship in orbit that picked up the shuttle, one a hell of a lot faster than a basic transport.  They jumped to hyperspace about a minute ago.”  She sighed, shutting down her lightsaber.  “I feel so blasted inept.”

“It doesn’t matter right now, Adi,” Master Mace said.  “Let’s go back to the others.”

They found Padmé on their way back to the Senator’s home.  She was cleaning a thin blade on the clothes of more green-garbed men with Force pikes.  “Self-defense,” she said in an innocent tone, as if daring the Jedi to contradict her.

“Badass,” Anakin said, before Master Mace or Master Adi could speak.  “Two less pricks in the galaxy.”

Padmé stopped what she was doing at once to stare at him.  “Are you okay, Ani?”

“No,” he said, but tried to smile.  Just for her.  “But I will be, eventually.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

When Qui-Gon arrived, he found Terza had made it before him.  She had Obi-Wan’s head and chest resting on her lap, supporting him and keeping part of his body off the floor.  Garen was sitting opposite her, informing her of what he’d found and done in a low voice.  His usual heavy freighter jacket was resting over Obi-Wan’s chest to stave off a chill in the room that should not have existed, not on such a warm day.

“Can I—” Qui-Gon began, but Terza immediately signaled for him to take her place.

“I need you to tell me how bad the mental damage is,” Terza said as they swapped places.  “I just—I’m not a Mind Healer, Qui-Gon, and he doesn’t want to let me in.”

Even that warning wasn’t enough.  Obi-Wan shivered under Qui-Gon’s hands, trying to relax into his touch just as much as he was trying to make a failed effort at escaping him.

Obi-Wan’s shields were ragged tatters, drifting in the Force like scattered cobwebs.  “Gods, what did he do to you?” Qui-Gon whispered.  He touched on their Lifebond once more, but came up against that same damned dark wall.  It was cracked and blackened, damaged by the same event that had ruined Obi-Wan’s shields.

Qui-Gon snarled at it when it refused to give way.  “Get this damned thing out of my way,” he demanded, and felt Terza’s calm determination as well as Garen’s fierce bulldozing join the fight.  They tore down the wall that the Sith erected, and by some miracle didn’t do any more damage in the process.

He closed his eyes in relief as the gossamer threads of the Lifebond were opened to him again.  There were almost no filters left in Obi-Wan’s thoughts, which were scattered outwards, affected by the—

“Palpatine destroyed the block,” Qui-Gon whispered, horrified.

Terza closed her eyes, biting her lip as her fingertips brushed along Obi-Wan’s temple.  “I was beginning to suspect as much.  Dear gods, Qui-Gon.  That’s—he’s in trouble.  That Sith bastard didn’t take down the block so much as obliterate it.”

Qui-Gon nodded.  He could sense dark threads of memory seeping out of what had once been adamantine walls, memories that Obi-Wan was desperately trying to contain.

 _Oh, love,_ Qui-Gon whispered.  He gently helped shore up Obi-Wan’s mind, affording his mate some temporary measure of shielding and relief.  He felt Obi-Wan’s presence brush along the outermost edges of his thoughts, thanking him without words, before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Let’s get him back to the infirmary,” Qui-Gon suggested.  It was a place to go that they all knew, and if this was as bad as Terza suspected…

Terza grasped one of Obi-Wan’s hands to monitor him as Qui-Gon and Garen moved together to lift Obi-Wan in a two-person, gentle carry.  They got him just off the ground before Obi-Wan’s eyes shot open.  He let loose a blood-curdling scream and tried to curl in on himself.

“Oh, gods.  No!” Terza gasped, placing her hands over the barely healed lightsaber wound.  “No, dammit, no—the mental damage was so overwhelming I didn’t even think—no.”  Her hands came away covered in fresh blood.

Terza looked up at Qui-Gon and Garen, her complexion ashen.  “I’m going to kill that Sith myself, with my bare hands.”

“Take a number and get in line,” Qui-Gon growled back.  _I’m sorry, Obi-Wan—we didn’t know._

 _S’all right_ , Obi-Wan replied, his voice hard to detect above the cacophony of chaotic thought.  _I know you’re moving me now, just—just get me away from this place._   Obi-Wan started trembling in his arms as Qui-Gon picked Obi-Wan up by himself, carrying him close to his chest.  _I’m sorry—I can’t—I don’t want to be here anymore._

Qui-Gon nearly panicked until he realized that Obi-Wan was still speaking of Palpatine’s home.  “We’re leaving.  Right now.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan drew into himself as much as he could, keeping a flood of terrible memories from spilling forth.  He kept hearing and seeing flashes of detail, and shut his eyes against them.

That just made it worse.

 _You should not have come back, Obi-Wan,_ Dooku said with quiet menace, his lightsaber ignited and ready. 

 _But you’re dead!_   His own voice, disbelieving. 

_We missed you when Order Sixty-Six was issued._

_That wasn’t revenge.  It was fucking genocide, and you well know it!_

… _Shall make the One…_

_You killed the boy who was meant to be your Padawan!_

_There are secrets that the Sith know…that the Jedi do not._

_Show me why you would do this._

_Kill her!  She is a traitor to the Empire!_

_Run!_

_KILL HER!_

Obi-Wan held his head tightly in his hands, realizing he was making an awful moaning sound.  He bit his lip against it, but it felt like his mind was trying to tear itself apart.

_You, my vengeful Jedi._

No.  He was not.  He was _not that!_

Obi-Wan tore at the too-heavy black tunics and tabards.  “Get these things off of me!” he yelled in distress, grateful when several hands helped to divest him of Maul’s tainted clothing.  Knives were involved, no care given now to preserving the material.  They removed layers and boots until he was stripped down to his undershorts, then wrapped up again in a blanket that immediately warmed, trying to stave off the chill that clung to his skin.

Hands warmer than the blanket pressed against the wound in his gut, human and Chitanook working in tandem to try and undo the damage the Sith had just caused.  The pain vanished in the intense rush of healing energy, but it felt like a temporary measure.  That was going to hurt again later, possibly worse than ever.  Palpatine was…thorough.

“What should we do with this crap?” Obi-Wan heard Vos ask.

Obi-Wan turned his head, spied the pile of black cloth on the floor, and scowled.  If there was one thing he never wanted to see again…

The material burst into flames at the thought.  “Aw, shit!” Garen squawked, leaping away from the sudden fire.  “At least let someone put it outside!”

Vos shook his head and gestured, levitating the flaming cloth off of the floor to fling it out of the window that Garen hurried to open.  “Problem solved, except for the poor bastard who has to clean up that mess outside.”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and fell back onto the bed.  That lasted only moments before Qui-Gon was gathering him up, blanket and all.  Obi-Wan felt himself shaking with relief and let Qui-Gon hold him close.  He buried his face against Qui-Gon’s tunics and breathed deeply of his mate’s scent as he tried to hold onto his fucking sanity.

“What happened?” Qui-Gon asked.

Obi-Wan couldn’t help it; he laughed, a mad cackle that was muffled by cloth.  “I made a dreadful error in judgement.”  His teeth started chattering, and his shaking became a trembling that he couldn’t stop.  He laughed again, amused by the lack of control, too.  “That’s probably putting it mildly.”

Qui-Gon’s words were still gentle as he asked, “Why would you do something like that?”

Obi-Wan smiled, a bitter, biting expression.  Qui-Gon’s voice would not be gentle, not if Obi-Wan wasn’t holding on tight to some very specific memories.  Reining them in and keeping them from the Lifebond was taking almost all of his pathetic remaining strength.

“He did it because he was trying to help me.”

Obi-Wan lifted his head and found Anakin standing in the room’s doorway, a terrible, knowing smile on his face.

That was his breaking point.  He felt shattered, as if everything he’d tried to hold together was unraveling before his eyes.  “How long?” he rasped out.

Anakin shrugged, his face entirely too young for the knowledge that was shining in his eyes.  “A day or so, maybe.  I didn’t even realize it until I saw Palpatine on the screen in the observation room.  It just…it brought everything back” Anakin said, and shivered in place.  Padmé, just behind him, put both of her hands on his shoulders in a show of support.

The exhaustion he felt in that moment was unbelievable, even as it felt like energy was crawling along his skin, trying to crack his skull in half.  “I wish it were not so,” Obi-Wan whispered.

Anakin nodded.  The shy grin that Obi-Wan had so loved broke out on his face.  “Believe me, I do, too, Master.  Next time I bitch about nightmares, feel free to laugh at me.”

Something occurred to Obi-Wan then, a long unanswered question swirling around in the memories unleashed by the block.  “How did I—how did I get out of there?”

Anakin crept forward; Padmé only loosened her grip on Anakin’s shoulders when she was close enough to stand at the foot of Obi-Wan’s bed.  Anakin sat down next to Obi-Wan and reached for his left arm, taking it with gentle hands before turning Obi-Wan’s arm over, palm-side up.

There was a long, jagged scar that ran from Obi-Wan’s elbow to wrist, one that had _not_ been there that morning.  No blade had made that mess.  That had been something else.

“Some things can still have power over you, even when you’re certain that they don’t,” Anakin said, staring up at Obi-Wan with a tormented gaze.  “I found you, and I made sure that you made it out of there alive.”  He took a deep breath.  “And then I buried it the same way I buried myself.  I made sure that Darth Vader would _never_ remember it.”

Obi-Wan touched the scar with a shaking right hand.  “I still—I don’t remember that.”

“You weren’t exactly conscious,” Anakin muttered, a bitter twist of a smile on his face.

“Who the—who the hell is Darth Vader?” Mace asked in angry confusion.

Anakin stood up, that same bitter smile on his face.  “I was.” 

When he spoke again, he cited verses from memories that had been long-buried for both of them.  _“There is One who is Light, and there is One who is Dark.  Together they make the One who is Both.  And the Light and the Dark shall make the One, and the Force will be Balanced.”_

Qui-Gon glanced back and forth between Obi-Wan and Anakin.  Obi-Wan’s heart ached at the expression on his mate’s face, even as it felt like his head was trying to burst.  “I don’t understand,” Qui-Gon said.  “What are the two of you talking about?”

“They’re telling us that the Prophecy of the Chosen One isn’t a Jedi Prophecy at all.”  Obi-Wan looked up in confusion to find Tahl in the room, Bant shadowing behind her.  When the hell—when had _they_ gotten here?

“Tahl?”  Qui-Gon sounded concerned.  Obi-Wan could sense other Jedi crowding near, struggling to overhear.  “What did you find?”

Tahl’s expression was bleak.  “The archives on Morous IV are very good.  They still had the visual recordings on file from the day that the supposed Prophecy was delivered to them by the man claiming to be Master Abhin Sal-Tur.  Bant…she showed me what he looked like.”  Tahl accepted the hand that Micah offered when her distress became a palpable thing.  “It was Bane.  Darth Bane.  He wrote the damned thing.  We’ve been following the prophecy trail of a Sith for a thousand years.”

Qui-Gon’s voice was faint with disbelief.  “No.  Tahl, no, that can’t—”

“It _is_ , Qui-Gon!”

Obi-Wan’s blood was roaring in his ears.  Darth Bane, last survivor of the great Sith War.  Creator of the line that resulted in Sidious, in Maul, in Dooku, in Vader…in Venge. 

Betrayed.  They were betrayed by words they thought had been their own.

Long-forgotten rage welled up.  Obi-Wan tried to hold it back, but it slipped from his grasp, taunting him with its freedom.

Obi-Wan hissed out a breath, pain and distress and anger mingling together, before he looked up and found Mace, locking eyes with the Head of the Order.  “Would you like to know what happened?” he asked, trying so hard not to lose the fragile end of his self-control.  “If you do, now is as good a time as any.”

It was going to be an easier task than he’d once feared, this Sharing.  He didn’t have any shields left to speak of.  He didn’t have to lower what didn’t exist.

Qui-Gon was gripping one of Obi-Wan’s hands, speaking intently into Obi-Wan’s ear, but Obi-Wan was beyond hearing, beyond reasoning.  He was staring at Mace, watching, waiting for Mace Windu to make a decision.

It was either share these memories, or go mad.

Mace’s expression was grieved before it hardened into stern resolve.  He gave Obi-Wan a slow, grave nod.

Obi-Wan took one last breath.  Time ground to a halt.

Then…then he let everything go.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for mental rape if not physical.


End file.
